For the past two weeks I’ve been relocating every single piece of shit that I own – and then some – into the all new Chowderhead Headquarters. Forgive me. For those who care, I’m still very much alive.
I decided to spend the first night that I didn’t have to run out and buy ‘stuff’ by testing the smoke alarm in my 600 sq. ft. dwelling. It works. Not only is it loud, but there are two of them that beep at the same time. They talk too. A female voice told me to stop cooking and to exit the building in a single file line with all the other pissed off residents.
After about ten minutes of listening to the incessant, loud beeping, I decided to just turn the radio on. I couldn’t find the clicker to change the hippy-music station that was on, but quickly decided that it was my only option to drown out the sound. My neighbors now have two good reasons to hate me.
After a couple of songs I began to realize why I prefer head banging and mosh pits ( \m/ ) over club humping and booty-grinding. A flood of awkward memories from an earlier point in life drifted into my subconscious mind. One particular memory stood out: 8th grade Halloween Dance.
I remember being absolutely stoked about it. Not just because Halloween is my favorite holiday, but because it would be the first ever legit school dance. It was gonna be off the hook: costumes, decorations, spiked punch, heavy metal, and chicks. Lots of them. All I needed now was a sweet-ass costume to reel ‘em in…
Ok, two things:
1.) A Marketing professor once told me that minivans are appealing to women because they look like a pregnant woman. Ironically, he was never married.
2.) Don’t ever go to a middle school dance dressed as Zorro.
With cape fluttering behind, I ogled all the decorations through the hand cut eye holes as I stormed into the front hall of the school. I could hear the music blaring from inside the gym as I excitedly handed my prepaid event pass to the ticket zombie (volunteer mom).
The hallway leading to the music was decorated with hundreds of Black and Orange balloons, spider webs, skeletons, monsters, event posters, and a few stragglers mingling outside the gym. Everybody turned as I stormed past. It was definitely the costume. I was a virtual clone of the dashing Zorro.
After turning a few heads, I exploded into the entrance of the gym, took two steps inside the door, and stopped dead in my tracks. It was at that moment when I realized that I was the only clown in the entire gym dressed in a Halloween costume – not just any Halloween costume – one that consisted of a cape, fake leather boots, a penciled-on mustache, and black tights. That my mom made.
I back peddled through the entryway of the packed gym before anyone really noticed, escaping with only a few snickers and jeers. There I stood, in a dark corner of the hallway out of sight, contemplating. My heart felt like it was gonna burst out of my chest and my face began to flush. I felt so stupid. Did I not get the memo? Was this a practical joke?
With sweaty hands, I peeled the mask from my face, exposing the redness that had formed on my cheeks and forehead. In a matter of milliseconds I’d gone from standing on top of the world to having the world standing on top of me – smashing the toes of my fake leather boots.
At this point, I didn’t have any way out. I couldn’t go back in that gym. At the other end of the hallway I noticed a Ping-Pong table swarming with the school’s uber dorks. Of course they were all wearing costumes. Clearly, that’s where I belonged.
I just stood there watching the uncoordinated geeks whiff on every serve. Then they argued. Then they whiffed. Then they argued. In the meantime, I just stood there shamefully peeling off layers of my once proud costume. All I could think was just blend in, Chowderhead, just blend in.
And that’s how I spent the rest of the night…
Everyone has a ridiculously funny story from their awkward middle school years like this. I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t still a little bit of residual hurt left. It’s an awkward time, and transitioning from being a kid to an adult is a painful process.
That’s why it’s important to never stop being a kid.
- Happy Blogging, Chowderheads \m/
- I Hate Middle-School Dances. (thekab69.wordpress.com)
- We’ve Got a Situation Here – The Situation Costume That Is (costumesupercenter.com)
Of all the great Rock and Roll acts to ever grace the stage during our time and times prior, never once did behemoths like The Who, or Led Zeppelin, step out into the lights before the music started to formally announce that they were about to play a gig. No sir. Save all that fluffy introduction crap for The Ed Sullivan Show.
Instead, they would lay in wait, denying the crowd the gratification that it desperately wanted, long enough to build up that certain cosmic energy that music is made of. These artists understood the powers that they possessed, harnessing the mystery and mystique behind the sound. And then, right when the audience was on the verge of blowing the roof off the stadium, the amps ignited, the vocals cracked the sound barrier, and the drums blasted a city-wide hole through the motherfucking ozone layer.
That’s how a Rock and Roll show begins, and how ChowderHead began here. Well, sort of.
ChowderHead is as much an art form as it is a conversational hub. It’s an oddity really – a fantastically bizarre, mysterious, dark, unpractical, senseless, anything-but-itty-bitty Rock and Roll ditty. Fart. (I just threw that fart thing in there for comedic effect.)
The stories and articles that you’ll read (or avoid) here are meant to draw you out of body, cradle your undivided attention, then backhand you across the face when you’re least expecting it. It’s an exploration and exploitation of all of the five senses through the creative assemblage of words. Sometimes you’ll laugh. Sometimes you’ll cry. Sometimes you’ll fart.
Sorry, I’m done with the fart joke thing now.
The subject material is supposed to be compelling, engaging. It’s supposed to make you think. Speaking of thinking, around here, cliché is an unwelcome guest. ChowderHead is about originality, weirdity, and taking that gut-ripping ride down the neural highway and into the deepest depths of the mindscape. And after you get there, you’ll probably far-
Ah! See, I caught myself that time. Fart.
So climb aboard the winding snake with me and let us slither together along the frayed edges of the human condition…
…with a fist in the air.
***Fart tracker: the word fart was mentioned or implied a total of 42 times throughout this post and comment section. Well done people. Well done.
- The Engagement Fart (baddestmotherever.com)
- The Stinky Truth Behind Farts (myscienceacademy.org)
- Thank You, Science: In-Flight Farts are Totally Fine (jaunted.com)
Alright, so dig this, I’m going on a solo flight in a couple of days and I’m wiggin’ out.
I’m not all that big on flying, so I’ve been spending a lot time in the fetal position, whimpering like a sissy. I thought this might be sort of therapeutic for me, ya know? Write it out, Adam, just write it out…
See, I’m not one of those people that’s afraid of crashing and dying. Honestly, I can think of much worse ways of expiring, like, for instance, being eaten by Hannibal Lecter. That would suck much more than a really brief, but really fun, roller coaster ride into the ocean.
Maybe I shouldn’t tempt fate…
What I am afraid of is all of the ridiculous scenarios that I create in my mind before I even set foot on the plane. Consequently, (I like that word) for the past week and a half I’ve been chain-smoking and building a collection of virtual self-help books, which now rivals the Library of Congress. At the moment, I’m working on a chapter in one of my anxiety miracle cure books called, “how to stop worrying about spraying projectile vomit all over the guy in the seat next to you.”
That would be one of those ridiculous scenarios. Not that it wouldn’t be possible I guess, but I haven’t tossed my cookies since I was an infant. That is of course if you don’t count that one time when I went to that Lebanese restaurant after a night of heavy drinking a few years back. But that was only like a violent vurp – not really full on hurl.
In any case, I realize now that not only do I have this longstanding phobia of just about everything, but a particularly bad phobia of all things vomit. God I hate that word. They actually have a name for it too: emetephobia. Gnarly!
Emetephobia, is what self-help guru’s refer to as an “Irrational fear.” I would have to agree, it is irrational, because chances are likely that I’m not really going to give two shits about the guy sitting next to me for a number of reasons:
1.). He might be an armrest-stealer.
2.) He might be a talker, which means kiss my Yatzy Addict Tournament goodbye.
3.) He could be a projectile vomiter, which would do absolutely nothing to help me rid myself of emetephobia.
I hope he’s just an armrest-stealer…
I’m rambling now. Shut up, man. Does this give me a free pass for slacking on reading everyone’s stuff? I’m acting like such an attention whore right now, I know. Please tell me to stick a sock in it and man up.
Oh, and I still don’t have a clue what I’m gonna name this blog, not that it’s all that important, but you know, The Artist Formerly Known as My Right to Bitch is gonna be a really hard one to plug to random strangers on the plane: “Hey, you should read my blog, it’s called…wait, do you have about five minutes to spare?”
Louisiana or bust…
- Vomiting Robot Pukes for Science (news.discovery.com)
- Larry the vomiting robot goes ‘viral’ while helping researchers study norovirus (thestar.com)
What?! You’re pullin’ my leg! Say it isn’t so, Adam?!
I’m sorry. It’s true. After the week has concluded I will have purged every last ounce of negativity and whining out of my frantic fingertips, and My Right to Bitch will be no more. Bankruptcy has been declared. Liquidation has begun. The podium mic unplugged for the last time…
Ok, let’s not get all overdramatic about this. I’m not going anywhere. Yes, I’m a bit choked up about the decision, and it’s a bittersweet one, but it’s time for a rise in consciousness. Sort of. The direction of the vortex has been reversed, and new and exciting horizons are on the…uh, horizons. Wait, that sounded stupid. That doesn’t even make sense?
I’ll come back to it.
Here’s the deal: Daddy needs a new name for this domain. The catch? I’m not gonna be the one to pick it. That’s your job. I know, I know – like you give a rat’s ass about naming my blog, and probably wondering out loud, “what’s in it for me?”
Oh-Ho-Ho! I’ll tell you what’s in it for you!
The winner of the name my blog contest will win an all-expenses-paid trip, including airfare, hotel, and deluxe accommodations, for a 6 day, 7 night trip to Cancun, Mexico. You will be stayimg in a presidential suite at the fabulous Mayan Palace resort, furnished with a golden toilet and lots of chocolate and berries and stuff.
Hahahahahaha! Yeah right! Who do you think I am, fucking Oprah Winfrey?
Ok, for real this time: The winner of the name my blog contest, as it is will be officially known by, will earn a guest of honor spot, right here, where you will be Comedy Central-style Roasted by yours truly, and become part of the last ever My Right to Bitch rant. This will probably be in history books one day…
I’ll be experimenting all week long with some sucky titles that I had in mind already, as well as revisiting some memorable posts and interactions with a ton of faithful followers.
Keep in mind, we ain’t ditchin’ the parties around here, and my brand of humor ain’t part of the liquidation process either.
Here’s the new tag for a little bit of inspiration:
“Rooftop Keg Stands. Pyrotechnics. Unruly House Guests. An Occasional Orgy, and Rock and Roll. Grab a Cup. Five Bucks at the Door.”
So, put your thinking caps on and drop your best ideas in the comment section throughout the week..
I’m counting on you. Tick, tock…
- Happy Blogging \m/
Yes boys and girls, you read that right. The Ring Leader of the wackiest circus show on earth popped in for a day long tour of the Motor City, and guess who the lucky shmuck was that had to babysit his ass?
It’s been a week and I’m still recovering…
I’m convinced there was no way of preparing for the unexpected visit. In less than twelve hours, the powdery little freakshow turned my hometown into a raging dumpster fire. See Exhibit A.
To find out more about all the ridiculous antics, outbursts, and clowning around, check out my guest post today on A Clown on Fire: http://clownonfire.wordpress.com/. It’s a goody.
Oh, and I just watched Bar Refaeli make out with the Godaddy nerd For the first time. Wow does money talk…
-Happy Blogging \m/
I have a dirty little secret to share with you all today — one that I’ve been withholding for some time now. I can’t live with the guilt anymore, and I’m finally ready to come clean with it: I’m Photoshop illiterate. I’m not proud to admit it, but I’m still floundering away at The University of Microsoft Paint.
If you’re not familiar already, MS Paint is a watered-down photo editing program that comes standard with every PC. The only thing it’s useful for is drawing a perfect circle, square, or trapezoid, then filling it with any of the three primary colors. It’s one step above an Etch-o-Sketch.
Since I’m in a giving mood today, I thought I’d give all you graphic artist snobs an opportunity to point and laugh at some of my crudely-edited pictures from the past. Up until now, none of them have seen the light of day. The tour you’re about to take should give you an idea of what I’m working with here.
In short, my graphic design skills are about four feet shy of a slam dunk.
I’m a wizard at blacking out teeth. Lucky for me, Suze Orman is already missing one. The caption saved this one. The sketchy-looking thought bubble did not. Grade D+
The caption saved this one too. Grade: D
What began as a Chariots of Fire-inspired tribute to Michael Phelps, ended in a craptastic horn sympony of wet farts being lit on fire. I blew this on so many levels. First off, I butchered the name. Phleps? C’mon man. Secondly, the Olympic Rings look like they just got off some Woodstock hippie bus after eating a handful of brown LSD. Needless to say, this one didn’t bring home the gold — or any medal for that matter — just a raging case of genital herpes. Grade: F
Where was I going with this one…This was actually an old piece from my graphic design portfolio. People who interviewed me described it as being preposterous, laughable, and harmful to pregnant women. One guy even called a couple weeks after the interview to tell me he’d gone sterile after looking at it. Liar. Needless to say, my computer drawing career never panned out. Now that I look at it again, I can see where they’re coming from. You did’t have to be a dick about it. Sheesh. Grade: F
Wait for it…
…and boom goes the dynamite. This one gets high marks for originality of content. Unfortunately, I’m not sure The Enquirer is gonna fork over any loot for this Photoshop hack-job. A Kindergartner could do a better job of cutting and pasting. Look at Bush — he looks terrified. I’ll bet this won’t be the first time G-Dub’s had a low mark stamped next to his name. Grade: D+
The shading is spot on in this one, but I kinda goofed on Sara Jessica Parker’s hair. Oh, and I totally forgot that she doesn’t eat carbs anymore. Sorry chicky, this ain’t gonna help straighten out the long face —-> Grade: D-
…Exhibit G: *G-Money*
Here’s an exception. Not much wrong with this one. Except for the fried egg in Becca’s hair. It was supposed to be a daisy. Whatever. If you print this out, don’t try using it at Walmart. They just busted someone recently who was trying to score change for a million dollar bill. True story. It’s obvious that Walmart invests heavily in counterfeit and fraud prevention. But who would wanna get rid of something with that pretty face on it? Grade: A+
Gary Busey is so grouchy around the paparazzi. I think he has a sugar problem. Or a coke habit. Probably both. By the way, fake blood is hard to do on MS Paint. It looks like cartoon barbecue sauce. Someone give this man a rabies shot. Stat. Grade: D -
More pickin’ on Bush. Wait. That came out wrong. Nevermind. If you’ve never seen the movie Ferris Bueller’s Day Off then you’re probably scratching your wig right now. Congratulations! You’re the only person on the planet that hasn’t seen it. The bong in the photo looks sort of believable, I guess. And it’s patriotic too! Who am I kidding. It all sucks. Grade: D+
I can’t imagine his monthly dry cleaning bill. Actually, who cares about that. I’m sending a Christmas card to the owner of the shop. What a saint for handling all those poopy pants. Grade: C
I even screwed up my tribute to David Dixon. Wait, is that his name or his nemesis? Either way, you make it look easy, my friend. Grade: F
End of Tour.
I hope nobody went sterile.
If you guys didn’t think this totally sucked, let me know. I have a lot more Fotoshop Fails in the dumpster out back. I could do a weekly bit called something corny like, “Fotoshop Fridays?” Meh. I’ll work on a title…
Oh, and check out the Post of the Week by Alien Red Queen. Nicely written, Ms Lady.
-Happy Blogging \m/
I’m not working a whole lot right now, so in an effort to conserve money, I went out and bought myself a $550 iPad. Yes, I know, Suze Orman fans, I have a low financial IQ – just like every other normal American. To say that I’m remorseful about this decision would be an understatement. At the moment, I’m approximately six and a half miles from having to siphon my neighbor’s gas at night.
Money aside, I’m in another crisis situation: for the past 72 hours and counting I’ve been on a Yatzy Addict binge.
If you’re not familiar with Yatzy Addict, it’s a knockoff app version of the board game, Yahtzee. I can’t stop playing it. I wake up in the middle of the night to take a leak, and one quick game turns into an all-night bender. In the morning I look and feel like a junkie: bloodshot eyes, bags, pasty complexion, guilt-ridden… If I don’t start working soon I’m gonna have to check myself into some kind of a rehab clinic.
I don’t play casually, either. I play with intensity. And passion. I yell at the computer and swear a lot. According to my dense logic, the computer is out to get me. It has sent evil avatars from space to destroy me and turn me into a boiling mess.
And to think, there was a time when I didn’t understand the allure of the tablet computer…
3 years ago
Adam: ”You want me to buy this iPad so I can play Angry Birds, you say? Stop right there. I’m perfectly happy with my stationary desktop computer that sounds like a microwave oven. What’s so useful about a portable computer that fits in the palm of your hand, and has a camera, and iTunes, and the internet, and that cool notepad thingy? Shame on you for being such a stupid consumer!”
…Now look at me: yelling at computer avatars in the heat of a Yatzy tirade.
I underestimated the addictive qualities of the iPad. I can’t put it down. For someone who once had hopes of weaning himself from the computer, the last thing I needed to do was run out and have one surgically attached to my fucking arm. To give you an idea of the magnitude of this problem, half the comments I left on your blogs this week occurred while I was sitting on the throne.
Yes. I know. But I’m a believer in making constructive use of down time. Wait, no. That’s not true. I waste all kinds of time. I guess staring at the back of the tablet for 72 hours straight would be just as productive. It would be a lot more boring, but equally as productive.
I’m like this with everything.
There’s a switch inside of me. It’s all or nothing. Last week it was Nintendo. Yes, the original. I thought it would be *neato* to relive my childhood, so I dug it out of the storage closet and spent the next half hour blowing in game cartridges. Low and behold, the fucker actually worked. The next thing I know, it’s four o’ clock in the morning and I’m still hunkered down, yelling at Link and Mario…
I guess my problems go way back.
Am I the only one suffering from iPad Addiction? Which app is your vice?
-Happy Blogging \m/
Author’s Note: I’d like to apologize for any mistreatment and/or agony caused by the profuse usage of capital letters during Sergeant Gunnery’s boot camp tirade. Sadly, the Sarge couldn’t make it today because he is now a semi-permanent fixture on my garage ceiling — courtesy of eight rolls of duct tape. Hoo-ah.
If there were a scientific method for measuring and ranking all the things that suck in this world, car shopping would probably fall somewhere between getting shot in the groin with a potato-launcher, and dealing with a bout of moderate to severe Seafood Poisoning.
Unfortunately, owning a car is a necessity for people like me, and every few years I find myself in the same pinch at the local motor mall.
Looking for a car isn’t the hard part. In essence, it’s actually not all that different from putting a fridge on layaway. The part that makes it less desirable than a spud to the hangers is when any of the following semi-fictional bullshit-artists enter the equation:
- Jerry Flannigan aka “The Dice Man”
- Ron Wystromski aka “Big Cheddar”
- Dick McGiven aka “The Shark”
- Ed O’Mallory aka “Fast Eddie”
From that point on it’s nothing but a high-pressure hassle.
Walking through a car dealership is like hiking through the desert with a piece of rotting meat tied to your back. From the moment I pull into a lot, there’s always some greasy sales buzzard wanting to shake my hand before I can put my foot on the blacktop. After introductions, I’m getting forcefully shoved past the econo-car section of the lot, and tossed into a pile of Corvettes, Cadillacs and Monster Trucks.
Meanwhile, there sits a tiny, imaginary man in my head, behind a xylophone, frantically playing an ambiguous tune. It’s a circus melody that perfectly captures the stress and confusion of the moment.
Many people feel the same way about the whole experience as I do. However, they go about preparing for it the wrong way. Most folks look to generic buying guides like Consumer Reports or the Suze Orman Show for tips and strategies on how to buy a car. This advice is shoddy, at best. Neither of these pop-resources highlight that being approached by a haggling salesman is an Act of War.
If you wanna avoid the runaround and get the most bang for your buck, car shopping requires a tactical, military-like approach. Hopefully you’ve already completed Tuesday’s Basic Training. You’re gonna need it.
Let me break it down by operation.
Operation 1: Reconnaissance
Begin by surveying the dealership for a few days with a pair of binoculars from across the street. Behind a bush. Determine which day is staffed with the fewest amount of Sales Pests. Identify a breach area. Keep a log sheet of your observations. Take pictures if you can, and carry an infrared lens.
Operation 2: Infiltrate the Enemy Establishment
After the surveillance operation, enter the lot at the identified breach area, and park as far away from the sales office as possible. Stealth is key. Use the vehicles in the lot to shield yourself. Stay low to the ground. Remember to camouflage: sweat pants and a dirty T-shirt with a Budweiser logo on it. You’ll be hard to spot if you look poor.
Operation 3: Create a Tactical Diversion
You will eventually be targeted. Remain calm. The key at this stage is to create a Tactical Diversion that will delay and/or weaken the offensive strategy of the oncoming insurgent. Note: the following tactics are battle-tested, but may lead to a brief jail stint if executed poorly.
Choose from the following list of Diversions based on your scenario:
- Parking Lot Tag – When the Sales Pest has captured you for introductions, immediately initiate a game of parking lot tag by firmly tapping him on the chest and yelling out:”Tag, you’re it!” If he doesn’t give chase, insult his mother.
- Cops and Robbers (or Cowboys and Indians) – This tactic is also childish. But who gives a fuck. Integrate a lot of somersaults and barrel rolls on the pavement into your evasive routine.
- Panic Button Hand Grenade – Request a set of keys for a vehicle. Once you receive the keypad, hit the panic alarm button and launch it grenade-style deep within the enemy compound.
- No Speaky English – If you’re not confident in executing any of the above tactics, use language as a sales barrier.
Operation 4: Identify Target Vehicle
While your Sales Pest is trying to catch his breath, and/or bent over a car, puking his lungs out, survey the enemy compound and identify the target vehicle for a test drive. Make sure it’s a Ford. And make sure it’s not Gold or Burgundy.
Operation 5: Highway Storm
After you’ve targeted a vehicle to test drive, request the keys. Bring your Salesperson. If he politely declines, try softening him up by applying reverse sales tactics: place your hand on his shoulder and ask about his beer league softball career.
After he’s in the vehicle and buckled up, put the pedal to the metal. Really open up the engine during your test drive. Do things to the target vehicle that you wouldn’t do with your current vehicle; brake torquing, neutral slamming, red-lining – get a feel for the beast.
If the salesman shits the seat, Abort Mission.
Operation 6: Negotiate Hostage Situation
At this stage, a hostage situation could mean one of two things:
1.). You’ve landed yourself in the sales office and are negotiating the price of a car.
2.). You’ve landed yourself in jail and are negotiating the terms of your release with a lawyer through a piece of bulletproof glass.
We’ll concentrate on the first one.
This is your opportunity to put the hammer down. At this point, the enemy should be showing signs of Post Traumatic Stress. Use these symptoms to your advantage. Make a lot of sudden, jerky movements, and drop things on the floor, like a stapler, to create loud noises. If that doesn’t work, try a computer monitor. This will keep the enemy in a vulnerable, defensive state of mind.
If executed properly, he’ll do whatever it takes to get you the fuck out of his office. When he’s cowering, immediately submit a low-ball offer on the Target Vehicle. Hold eye contact. After he prints a contract at the newly negotiated (low-ball) price, illegibly sign on the dotted line. Do not shake hands, and do not turn your back to him while exiting the cell. Before fully carrying out your exit plan, bark. Like a dog. Do it with passion and fury.
While he’s under the desk, make your break at full sprint.
Eat my Pants, Suze Orman.
What’s the battle plan when you go car shopping? Please share your funny stories!
-Happy Blogging, Private First Class \m/
- Car salesman brothers guilty of fraud (modbee.com)
- Bucks Blog: What I Learned the Hard Way About Leasing a Car (bucks.blogs.nytimes.com)
If you’re in the market for a car right now, listen up. I have some information that could forever change the way you shop for a vehicle, and help you avoid the runaround at a dealership. I’m talking about proven tactics designed to get you the consumer the most bang for your buck. Or thrown in jail. One or the other.
However, we need to handle a bit of administrative business first.
I’ve been throwing too many house parties lately, and things are starting to get a bit loosey-goosey. So, I’ve decided that in order to regain some of the lost order, I’m bringing in a drill instructor for the rest of the week. He will be answering all of your questions and comments if you have any. Oh, and don’t eat anything greasy before you show up for basic training.
Meet your drill instructor for the week:
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman
Take it away, Sarge.
Drop by this Thursday and check out Strategic Car Buying 101.
AND DON’T BE LATE. THAT’S AN ORDER!
-Happy Blogging, Private First Class \m/
P.S. Check out the Post of the Week by Society Red!
It’s been recently called to my attention by a voluptuous, Strawberry-locked friend of mine, that many are experiencing a serious bout of writer’s block at the moment. Throw me in the mix. However, I’m not ready to hit the panic button just yet.
I have a solution.
Let’s put our heads together and have a Block Party for Writer’s Block — A Writer’s Block Party!
Another good idea that you can thank me for later.
Here’s the scoop:
I just realized the other day that everything that I post requires a hell of lot of work. All of it a testament to my perfectionistic (I know it’s not a word, bite me) personality. So for tonight, and tonight only, I’m shutting off the internal monologue. I encourage you to do the same.
I’m finding it difficult to sit in front of a computer night after night– trying to write. Key word: trying. I’ve noticed that sometimes it works, and other times it doesn’t When the words are flowing and sentences are writing themselves, I know that what I’m writing about is something that I feel strongly about. However, when I’m forcing it, someone else may as well be writing for me. It’s not the authentic me speaking, and authenticity, to me, is really important.
Trying to write something is like trying to pinch a loaf on a low-fiber diet. It’s straining and could potentially cause serious health problems. This whole thing is supposed to be fun – not work, but sometimes it feels like just that. If things aren’t flowing (pun intended), maybe it’s best to step back and have a casual writing session.
Enter: Stream of Consciousness.
I made a personal goal for myself tonight: free write. Just write for the hell of it, and not for any other reason. I don’t care if two people or a thousand people read this. I’m just writing for the fun of it. A random thought popped into my head and I’m running with it.
If you do pop in and join the Writer’s Block Party, I’ll be around to hash out all of our frustrations in the comments. After that, try free-writing, yourself. It’s a liberating feeling. Remind yourself tonight that this all about having fun, and do just that. Write for the sake of writing — not for any other superficial reason.
Let’s get a brain storming session going tonight.
And then, let’s all do the hokey pokey together, because in essence, that’s what it’s all about.
Let the fiber be with us.
-Happy Blogging \m/
- Is Writer’s Block a lack of internal permission to write? (orestn.wordpress.com)
- #FWF Free Write Friday; Writing RAW with Author, Rebecca Tsaros Dickson (kellieelmore.com)
- Bloggers Block (rosewarnegardendesigns.wordpress.com)