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.