After sitting on the bathroom floor and removing my manicure with acetone that smelled like cat piss, I am now in front of my laptop with a bottle of beer, hoping that after writing I'll be tipsy enough to fall asleep.
During nights like this I can't help but think about things that are "important". (I put quotation marks as half the time "important" is a load of bull crap.) It's mostly the same things that people my age get all anxious about -- work and quality of life. Aside from really bad experiences in the past that keep on resurfacing like Sadako crawling out of a well, I am bombared with pseudo-existentialist questions like "Where am I?", "Where am I going?", and "Where's the restroom?". It's not really fun, and if there's any way I can get an express ticket out of this frame of mind, I'll gladly pay up.
I'm sadly at that point when I'm starting to question if I'm making the right decisions for myself at all. Sometimes I envy those people whose lives look like a prettily-painted picture hanging in a wallpapered room; everything is almost perfect and quite nice to look at. As for my life, it feels like a DC comic book made into a pretty bad movie.
But I guess amidst all this bull crap, there's value in finding the one thing that I'd really like to do for the rest of my life. I'd like to write. What I'm scared of is if I can actually pull off making a living out of it.
Then again, what's to be scared of? What have I got to lose right now? I bit of my salary I guess, but then again if I don't do this now I bet Life's going to rear its ugly head and bite my ass while asking me how dense can I possible get. Why don't you just write, Life would probably say. You're doing it now, why don't you just keep at it?
Maybe I will this time around. We'll see what happens.
Beer's gone. I better get some sleep. Hey, who would have thought that tipsy-blogging would actually help me realize the obvious?
