Fuck Inspiration

hemingway

Inspiration?  Fuck inspiration.  Whether the stuff comes from the bottle or from the recesses of a sad and twisted mind, inspiration is nothing more than a trait I fully lack.  Hemingway had inspiration.  Bukowski had inspiration.  Me?  I have a half bottle of cheap scotch, one more cigarette and not a single ounce of empathy or patience for the masses at large; and for you Americans…I mean, literally, the large.  I have a crooked spine, a sour disposition and the mind to kill myself if it weren’t for two sons and an overwhelming hankering to get fucked up like an altar boy at the behest of a local priest…not the ‘fucked’ part mind you, just the Jesus juice is what this degenerate craves. No, I leave the inspiration to the wordsmiths, the creators, the writers, the artists, the goddamn pretentious authors who fake depression and sadness as though it were some rite of passage before they write a passage.  I’ll stick with Marlboro’s and self-loathing to wrench one more shitty line of prose from my withering hand, thank you very much.  I say this as if I’m some sort of saint who fought the good fight and refused to “sell out”.  Sell out?  A person has to actually sell one before he can sell out. I’m just your average man in an average life who always wanted more.  Who doesn’t?  Every child grows up thinking they’re the most special child since that of William James Sidis.  Me, I find my consolation in knowing my place in the world is in empty bottles of alcohol, half smoked cigarettes, unfinished novels (both read and written), and women who despise me. I like a night of fighting and vomiting followed by the warm embrace of a dirty glass of whiskey and some nicotine in my blood.  I like shitty food at 3 am, a good Chuck Palahniuk book and the depressing scene of a box of Kleenex, a laptop and some rumpled sheets and blanket on a stained mattress. I like the down and out, I like the dirty, the smelly, the castaway and the cast aside.  Inspiration?  Fuck inspiration.  Inspiration is for the weak and the fragile.  Inspiration is for the cats who can’t find solitude and acceptance without their muse lodged directly in their colon, blowing sweet-nothings up an empty ass.  I write with fucking purpose.  I don’t write with heart; I don’t write with feeling or emotion or love.  I write to get the fucking demons out of my head so that I may go one more day without murdering myself, or one of the hapless morons who pepper my day with their insipid inanity.  I might be a humanist, but I don’t have to like the human.  I’m not an angry person, I just have an anger problem.  The drinking? It’s not a problem, it’s what cushions you from my own invidious feelings towards inspiration.  Some folks have it and they make a million dollars from it.  I’d just rather say I have none and therefore the blame falls back onto you, the reader.  You dislike my words so I dislike you.  And here we are in a fucked up circle-jerk of no-one-understands-my-genius.  It ain’t easy bein’ me, but then again…I have no inspiration.

P.S. – For those overzealous readers, calm down…it’s just “writing”.  It’s over-dramatic on purpose.

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Comments
14 Responses to “Fuck Inspiration”
  1. Vivek says:

    This. Is. Brilliant.
    Let me rephrase. Fucking Brilliant.

  2. Amanda says:

    Difference between personal character and personal attitude? My character is who I am. My attitude is who, through other’s “insipid inanity” they drive me to be. Apparently I’m driven quite often. Quality rant. I think I read it in Lewis Black’s voice. Good to see you in my inbox again…and dear God, that wasn’t meant to be a euphemism.

    • graysonjack says:

      Haha, thanks for allowing me to enter your inbox once more! That, also, wasn’t meant to be a…never mind, yes it was.
      I like that you read it in Lewis Black’s voice though; he’s by far, one of my favorite comedians!

      • Amanda says:

        In that case, you’re welcome into my inbox any day. Aaaand let the assumptions of others roll in….I do smile at your caveats at the end of your posts. The warnings to readers that these are merely fruits, albeit sometimes bitter fruits (wink, wink) of your creative license. The major issue with writing is relying upon a reader’s interpretation, and in this hypersensitive atmosphere we can’t seem to rise above with testicular fortitude intact, saying things such as “suicide” or related colorful terms makes them assume we’re in need of an imposed 72 hour state sanctioned time out. Lewis Black often indicates he’d rather off himself than bear witness to more “humanity.” Maybe you should do podcasts. Take comfort in knowing at least a few of us don’t assume you’re seriously contemplating a dirt nap due to…oh, I don’t know…stupid, McDonald’s loving, Hoveround driving, Patriot Act supporting douche nozzles? Am I close?

        • graysonjack says:

          Thank you for your permission to enter your box at my leisure; you’re my kind of girl! I’m glad you realize there SHOULDN’T be a need to put those caveats at the end of some of my posts. Unfortunately, after a particularly ill-worded post, I had a couple friends texting, worried that I was taste-testing the barrel of a gun. It seems hyperbole is lost on the masses.
          I like your comments…you write much better than me!

          • Amanda says:

            “Hyper-bowl? What’s that? Like the Super Bowl for people with ADHD?” See what I mean? Writing is a lost art, mainly because most of the readers become lost too quickly.I blame YouTube. And Twitter. Thank you for your gracious compliment. Made me blush a little.(not really, but I may have grinned smugly for a moment.)

            • graysonjack says:

              Writing is definitely a lost art…so is the actual act of ‘writing’ itself. I’ve never typed anything first. Even my “novels” are written longhand first. Anyway, that’s not the point; Twitter is the biggest contributor (at the moment) to the loss of intelligent exposition. 140-characters-or-less is whittling away at our attention spans at a rate that makes me feel books are becoming a thing of the past.
              A blush, a smug grin…it’s all sprinkles to me, lady!

              • Amanda says:

                I’m willing to bet you are one of the dinosaurs who’s able to (gasp) write in cursive, too!

                • graysonjack says:

                  I’m the T-Rex of cursive.

                  • Amanda says:

                    Rawr! A man who is able to write legibly is kind of a turn on. And articulate random verbal ejaculations into enjoyable prose (beyond 140 characters)?! I may be sprinkles, but you? You’re the whole cupcake!

                    • graysonjack says:

                      Well it looks like I’m the one who’s blushing now…or at least an embarrassed grin!
                      A girl who can be turned on by words is a girl who has gone from sprinkles, surpassed cupcake and gone right to the whole cake.
                      …love the subtle but powerful sex euphemism for sex by the way. I’m smitten.

  3. Haha brilliant. Did you edit that when sober?

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