My balls...? Ask your mother.

It has recently come to my attention that I have lost my god damn mind. I’m not quite sure when this happened, but I believe it started when I was about 5, and is progressively getting worse as I get less young. I am having serious self doubt issues concerning the course of my life, wasn’t i suppose to be a secret agent by now? Or at least a fire man? When did I decide it was ok to be mediocre? Probably while I wasn’t looking. Sneaky old me.
Well now that I am stuck here doing what I’m doing and dad didn’t raze no quitters, I will inevitably follow through with this sham that is a “career” in the “exiting” field of marketing. When I inevitably know I am destined for far greater things than feeding the greed of a consumer society.
I decided to write for a living because I believed that writers hold up a mirror to society and project pure truth back at it, even if the truth is a generic human one and it is buried under a mountain of fiction. Now I’m selling blatant lies covered by a thin layer of consumer benefits.
Spectacular fail. Young Saint would kick me in the nuts and slap me around all the while screaming “Is that the best you can do?!” So it has been decided that I am to write things that reflect society, or at least my version of it. SO prepare to be dazzled by my awe inspiring FTWness. I just need to find my balls and reattach them...I think I left them at your mom’s house...

A drunk hedgehog on water mattress

A terrible tragedy has befallen man today; I have started a blog. And though I hate the entire idea behind someone drivelling all their insignificant little character-traits and their utterly meaningless trials and tribulations on the internet for all to see. I do now realise that there was something I overlooked...

So you want to be a writer? I of course replied, “Hells Ye!” I now realise I have doomed myself to be one of those writers who thinks about writing and then doesn’t, who come up with an idea for a novel and then miraculously never gets past the first 10 or so pages.

Yet I have resigned to sticking to this decision come hell, high water or the scorn of a woman. Writing a novel without some other form of financial support seems foolish so I took it upon myself to sell out it the most flamboyant way possible and became a copywriter. So I could peddle the wares of some corporate America South African wannabes. All the while resenting the fact that I had to indeed do some commercially viable work and not just relax, something I have become exceedingly good at.

The revelation I had was that I myself was an ignorant snob. You see I had to redefine myself from arrogant chauvinist (which in retrospect is pretty ignorant in itself) and realise I was not a unique snowflake and that this whole internet self publication/exhibitionism was just an outlet and that I was obviously not above it.(above the internet?!)

So this is my quest, to write, just write...no seriously just write. Yes I agree it is not the grandest of quest, and certainly not the epic in any shape or form but it is however necessary. Since I do not intend to be a copywriter my entire life... No I intend to be a normal run of the mill master of my own literary universe.

So the trails and misguided ranting of my quest towards achievement of literary potential will be slapped on this space, for all who cares to read it. I will brave the sordid internet (which is statistically 80% pornography anyway) like a deer in the headlights of self-doubt. Like a fossilised raptor with a slight calcium deficiency, Like a drunk hedgehog on a water mattress.