I am going to try to start finishing things regularly, if only to prove to myself that I can write something that has a beginning, middle and end and isn’t just an amorphous blob of narcissistic waste haunting my Drafts folder.
I’m becoming the worst kind of cliché. I’m that “writer” you see in movies, you know, the one whose wife left him for a banker named Billy and whose claim to fame is an editorial in the local paper on the excellent service at Applebee’s (oh wait, that was a Yelp review). Side note: TELL ME, WHEN IS MY MIND-BEND PILL COMING??? WHEN WILL MY BEAUTIFUL KATHERINE HEIGL FALL FOR ME DESPITE THE FACT THAT I AM IN EVERY WAY AN AVERAGE PIECE OF SHIT? (Hollywood, please stop rewarding mediocrity if it’s not going to apply to me, too, k, thanks.)
My daily routine is schlepping myself around the house while contemplating the exact rate at which my savings are dwindling (it’s something like 210 square dollars per cubic I don’t give a shit).
Here is my thought process each morning.
- Dear God I need a job.
- A job in the industry? Keep working!
- But do I even want to a job in the industry? If the only kind of job I can get is as an assistant who works 60 hours a week, leaving 20 hours in traffic and 2 hours to feel the gentle touch of a Netflix account, why would I want that?
- So…what if I waited tables for a while? Working on that. I could do the starving artist lifestyle. Waiting tables by day, writing by night. I’ll do that.
- Just. Give me a second while I put the four-hundredth edit on my dead-end pilot. Then I’ll go find a job. I promise.
And then, in the end, I give up and end up watching twelve seasons of The Office instead and pat myself on the shoulder and say, “It’s okay. Tomorrow will be a new day.”
I understand how people can get to age fifty and realize they’ve done shit with their lives. Hey, at least they have that stellar Yelp review.