(Summer 2024–Atlanta, GA)
For all purposes to bare, I am a WRITER. Never call me an AUTHOR. Authors paint grand images over the skeleton of prose depicting something on the zip code of meaning. I happily just vomit thoughts that I lived through and carefully describe the hangover that ensued.
An Author would start their story by spooling a symbolic setting that builds the characters in an impactful environment.
As a writer, I'm afraid that the place I draw you first didn't build the characters as much as it broke us down. But look—I'm not penning this looking for pity or praise. I was a young homosapian who always felt like life was short. You have to chase adventure and hide from boredom. My biggest fear was ending up like the people I left behind in my hometown. A land of full grown males that jerk off to Jason Aldean and spend their weeks (literally) watching concrete dry. Or, if they tried in college, are destined to spend the rest of existence bouncing from one work-from-home gig to another pretending that's freedom. That's why when opportunity knocked I stopped writing after my original novel was released and hopped on the mighty clit that is the music industry. I licked hard. Just like a good gigolo should.
The reality is that everything sucks, no one really asked to be born, and I couldn't have been more wrong. Like I said, I was young—and admittedly an insufferable know-it-all.
Now I'm no longer young.
I could reach out at arm's length and kiss my upcoming 30s. It's getting bleak and the end is near. Luckily, I did learn that the past is a pretty funny fucking place when you're a god of the present.
The only thing I'm truly jealous of past-me is that I genuinely used to feel nothing.
If apathy is the enemy I absolutely didn't give a shit.
YOU ARE READING
cures for Apathy
HumorAn insufferable know-it-all recounts his daring misadventures in Hollywood (and beyond) during the late 2010s and early 2020s. A chapter, one week at a time. Print available July 1st everywhere.
