Today's the last day of my bachelor week; tomorrow I'll see Rowan again and I'll be back to eating food that's not been flash-frozen. I hope my body doesn't go into shock.
That also means next week I'll have to actually think of stuff to write about that's not happening around me. It's fun to write about yourself but unless you're a noir-type G-man or a superhero, I don't know how you keep it interesting.
I suppose some people talk about things that suck, or people that suck, or movies or video games or celebrities that suck. All valid subjects, but there's only but so much bile you can heap on before all you've got is a big ol' tub of bile and you can't even see anymore what it is that got you started.
Don't get me wrong, I love trashing stuff as much as the next person. It totally makes you feel good about yourself when you see some millionaire celebrity or over-hyped film totally fall apart, or someone asks your opinion of an ultra-lame video game and you get to rip it to shreds. It's a great bonding experience, too. Everyone can identify with not being that failure.
Fame, what you like is in the limo
When I was a kid (and more recently than that) I used to think that I would just get discovered somewhere. You know, I'd be walking down the street and someone in a giant car would pull up and, underneath giant diamond-encrusted sunglasses, would yell out to me, "Hey, you there! You're the best walker I've ever seen! I want to make you famous!"
Or that I'd be in a field kicking around a soccer ball and the same person, but this time with gold sunglasses, would yell out to me, "You're a natural, kid! You just need some direction and a multi-million dollar contract! You'll be the greatest!"
I suppose what I was hoping for was that I could get attention for what came naturally to me, and that I was secretly really good at something I didn't even know anything about. I realize now that my fantasies of fame rely heavily on me not doing any real work or even having any real skills.
Which I guess is why I write.