Here, Now I’m Going Out for a Cigarette

by G.T.

     My coworker, Larry, who encouraged me to start this blog, told me last week that I’m “readable”, but short of “compelling”. I agree with Larry. Blogging, or just social networking in general, is new to me. Sure, I’m twenty-one, but my outlook is this: I started a Facebook for the sole purpose of keeping in touch with friends who live elsewhere. Fuck the applications. Fuck the stupid games. I’m not giving into that bullshit. Myspace: never had one. Twitter: fuck it. Maybe one day I’ll tweet. Until then, I prefer listening to my peach-faced lovebird tweet along with the neighborhood sparrows and finches every morning. I took Larry’s advice to heart. “If you want to get your name and writing out there for people to read, why aren’t you blogging?” I rarely take the advice the others, but I took his seriously. And I’ve come to enjoy blogging. It’s a little accomplishment everyday when I watch that line graph rise from zero to however many people visited my blog. Props to those of you who care to read about underground rap, cigar reviews, delicious Latino restaurants, and episode pitches for the comedy show I’ve been so fortunate to get an opportunity to write for. Thank you, Larry, for lighting the flame under my ass so that I’ll start doing something that is beneficial to me and my aspirations. And props to my friend, Jason, for being the first subscriber to my blog. Much love, homie.

     I just wrote a post a few minutes ago, about Joliet. Why did I write it? I felt as though I had to post someting today. Nobody visited this fucking blog. I’m hardpressed to make sure that people find out about me. I’m being impatient. I’m trying to be compelling, like Larry had pointed out that I’m not. My post last week, “Last of a Dying Breed”, was an attempt of me being compelling. It was that night that I had spoken to Larry. I received one comment, by somebody who has a private blog, which in other words, can read about me whereas I can’t read about them. Regardless, she listed several authors who were supposed to be the kinds of writers that I had claimed no longer are around. I will say that a few of the names she mentioned bear credence against my claim. Sure, Palahniuk can be considered a writer who writes from life and conveys it’s essence. Somewhat. I was thinking more of Hemingway, Faulkner, Carver, Steinbeck, Capote, Baldwin, Ellison, and Bukowski (who may not be considered literary by some, and if so, then fuck you). And above all, myself. I learned from these men. They taught me how to write like a writer. What I meant to say in that post was this: Literature ain’t dead, motherfuckers.

     Starting this blog, I’ve been hesitant to reveal my personality in these words that I publish on this page. Truth is, I’m not all that modest, and my lack of infusing these posts with my character has, consequently, led to me not being all that compelling. After publishing that last post, the one about Joliet and how I was desperate to post something in the hopes that some asshole would read it, I checked out a few other random blogs. Usually, I search under the tag “writing”. I found some woman, a wife and mother, talking about how much she loves being a woman and so damn sexual. This is why I was so turned off to blogging in the first place: a bunch of people who think that they’re individuals. Go fuck yourself. You’re as much of an individual as I am, and by that I mean there’s a thousand others just like you, just as there are a thousand others like me. Sure, she may be a nice person, but what the fuck? I may be immodest for no good reason, but at least I’m not too self-absorbed. So self-absorbed that I’m going to pour all of my personal feelings onto a webpage for the entertainment of others. I could only imagine if I published my personal journals, thousands of pages of my own experiences and thoughts, onto this blog. I’d get a thousand hits a day. However, I’m not going to do that. I do enough interesting things to keep this blog afloat without talking about my most personal and intimate thoughts.

     So I guess my most compelling characteristic is my dickheadedness. The antithesis of humble, but not ignorant, because I know exactly what my flaw is, if it is a flaw. A lot of people consider immodesty a bad trait. Look at what people say about Kanye West, who happens to be one of my favorite producer/rappers. Not surprising, I know. And it probably is a flaw by some. I’m funny, but I really haven’t expressed my humor in this blog either. I’m currently in that awkward phase that I have when I’ve just met somebody. I just met you, who has no idea what kind of sense of humor I have. You, who has no idea how smart allecky I can get at times. To your surprise, most everyone who meets me likes me. I’m a gentleman who doesn’t hide his flaws, just what happens to be written in his journals. I can’t explain myself. It’ll take volumes. For some reason, I was compelled to write this post. Blame it on this cheap moscato. I may as well have bought another bottle of that sour Greek wine.