My writing is haphazard at best. This disturbs me to no end. I am never going to be this generation’s answer to Stephen King, Mark Twain, or W.E.B. Griffin if I don’t get off my lazy ass and get to work. I laugh at these analogies my mind creates. I do not want to be Stephen King. I just want his money. Well, not his money per se, but a regular royalty check equal to or greater then those he receives. Unfortunately, his genre is not my type of writing. It scares the crap out of me. He is my favorite writer in that his prose comes alive in my mind as no other writers work. When I read his work, I can literally visualize the characters and monsters.
Mark Twain delights me and creates great bell laughs in me. This is something to see considering the girth of my stomach. Besides, I do not have that refined a sense of humor. I have no desire to spend the time Mr. Griffin spends in research, but I do devour his books as if they were potato chips.
I do want to get around to writing everyday, and not whine about my inability to do so. I know that the times I spend writing give me the greatest contentment and, as such, really should just shut up and write. It is not the keyboards fault that I have to live life in order to write. It is my fault if I do not share what is in me with the world. I am just getting over the thrill of my first for-pay publication. I am ready for the next step, and I want to define that step. I really would rather write what is there and worry later of what I should charge for it.
School is going just as it should. The students are alternately giving me a hard time, or cooperating totally depending on what is in their oft-times scrambled little heads. We have had some incidents that are quite disturbing and that always serve as harbingers of things not desired. One of our kids is in a particularly bad place and it has affected us all. Legal and moral issues prevent me from discussing this further, although I really want to shout over a large bull horn my rage and indignation. I do not get to do this, though…I am an adult and a professional. Man, it really sucks being me in this situation. I am, as you all know, a self deluded champion and crusader of the oppressed. I want to liken myself as the masked man riding into town of a great white horse and saving the universe from dastardly deeds performed by maniacal villains. In truth, I am just a guy that gets to hug a kid who feels bad about himself, and cry about his situation when no one is looking. Being me sucks, at this particular moment in history.
As to my sunburn. About a year and a half ago, I decided I had grown tired of combing my hair and shaved it off. I am not much of an outside person, and most of the time my head is cold. This is not an entirely unwanted state of affairs. Yesterday, I participated in my first school field trip as a teacher. We went to a rescued tiger sanctuary nearby. It never occurred to me that I needed a hat. I haven’t worn a hat for years. Not since I gave up the manual arts in employment and began my life as a great thinker, philosopher, teacher, and all around pain in the ass. Well, I walked around and had a grand old time. I ate lunch next to my young friend who is having a hard time. I shared my cookie with him, and spoke with the other students about how cool the tigers were. We all chose one who we wished we could take home. My young companion and I both wanted the largest one for ourselves. All 800 pounds of raw meat devouring, sleep-20-hours-a-day lazy ass cat. Kind of like having a houseful of teenagers. My friend said that he would have to quit school and get a job, and I realized that if I had that gargantuan feline to feed, I would probably lose the weight I complained about in an earlier post.
We left the location and went home early. I lay down to take a nap and woke up feeling terrible. My blood sugar was through the roof, and my body felt as if that big cat I favored had thrown me around in a similar fashion as the rag toy he played with while observing him in his cage. I looked in the mirror and attributed my red face to the blood sugar. I felt bad all night, and still felt that way once I got to work this morning. First thing, one of my kids told me that I was sunburned and it occurred to me that I had not had that particular malady in many years. I have a perpetually tanned left arm from when I drove a truck. The rest of my body is ghost white. I think I need to get out more, or at least buy one of those cool Alan Quartermain hats for when I venture into the jungle that is the entire world outside. Perhaps a little fresh air might do me some good. Perhaps it might prevent me from writing these depressing rants which probably serve as the chief reason I still take anti-depressant medication.