I ripped that off from Carl Jung.
Here's something else I'm ripping off from a Chuck Palahniuk seminar on writing fiction: including factoids and quotes gives the narrator an heir of credibility (obviously to be exploited later), which hopefully makes them at least seem like the smartest guy in the room, and thus worth listening to. When that hook is set, that's when you start weaving in your kooky manifesto. Regurgitate enough esoteric bullshit which no one could possibly call you out on, and people start to assume you know what you're talking about. I'm one paragraph in and hopefully I've accomplished that already.
This is like how you get your cat with all the extra bilirubin in his piss to eat that kidney medicine. Just try getting that little fucker to swallow it whole and you're gonna end up speeding to the E.R. with your severed finger on ice. Instead, grind it up and mix it in with a can of fancy feast (go ahead and splurge for the gravy-lovers variety,) and he'll be begging for it the second you walk in the door after work.
Last week it was pointed out to me that I have a George Costanza wallet. If you don't watch Seinfeld on the regular, picture a cube of a worn leather, some six inches square, crammed full of everything but American currency. I have two excuses. First, an abundance of Christmas gift cards, which is obviously a problem most people would be happy to have. Second, for the past few months I've been scratching notes for "comedy material" (and I'm using that term very loosely,) down on countless scraps of paper and storing them in my wallet. Some of it is movie ideas, some quotes I hear from insane Jamaican drug-dealers I work with, some lists of crap I wanna do before I die...but mostly stuff I just wanna complain about.
It's a new year, and I'm going green. No more rainforests will be leveled for these scraps of paper splitting the seams on my wallet. Also, I started recycling and I now have a more fuel-efficient vehicle : )
Unfortunately, despite all my recent life-style changes, I don't currently have a girlfriend. In addition to the more typical girlfriend duties, I need someone to complain to and share stories with on an almost constant basis. Someone who will always be there to vent to and never complain about me complaining. Maybe even someone who appreciates it.
Who knew the ole' porn box could actually be useful on an emotional level too?
Girlfriend-schmirlfriend.
It's amazingly therapeutic to pull that release valve on your brain and share your thoughts with another human being, even if they don't offer any input. Putting ideas into words forces you to give everything a second thought. Writing it down makes you give it a third and fourth. I think this is something close to what Jung was talking about with the whole "looking in your heart" business. I want to be an open book. I want to be unfiltered. I never understood the concept of young girls keeping a diary which their mom or little brother would inevitably find, and make your next Sunday dinner feel like that dream when you're inexplicably naked in front of your entire biology class. That's just not an impulse I could readily identify with. Maybe the danger of it all was a motivating factor. Hopefully this blog will be something like a diary that you're all invited to read. Doesn't that sound intriguing?
Since I can't afford a therapist, this blog will be my therapist, my girlfriend and my soapbox. I wanna look inside and put it on the outside for all to see. I don't really care if anyone reads it on a regular basis, but just knowing that it's out there in the aether somewhere is comforting enough.
In my next post, I'll tell the story about how I spent $60 on an 8 oz. jar of dead sea salt, and why I consider that a great deal.
love,
Bobby
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