Old Dirty sends me an Instagram picture of a girl who’s about to read Old and Dirty. “How did you find this?” I ask. I’m flattered and at a lost that someone would think my novel worthy to post on their Instagram, and what makes it more interesting is that I don’t even know this person and neither does Old Dirty. What does this mean? I keep asking myself. Am I on the right path? Does this mean I’m good?
You tend to think these things as you struggle to make it as a writer and fight for legitimacy, so when I see something like this picture, I have to take a step back and try to understand the meaning of it all.
“I just did a search and it came up,” says Old Dirty. “It’s kinda cool when you think about it.”
I hate to harp back on my lack of hygiene lately, but since I’ve been locked away for the last few months writing my words, I’ve transformed physically into a slob. I mean, I literally smell like some people feel, and that can never be a good thing unless you smell like Herbal Essence.
My sleep schedule is messed up because of all this writing. I normally don’t fall asleep until six in the morning and I won’t wake up until three.
The last time I truly went out to do something, I drove to Raley’s so I could buy a pack of chimichangas, a two liter of Coke, a jug of cranberry juice, a box of Snicker’s ice cream bars, a carton of rocky road, chips and salsa, and a bag of Ranch Doritos.
That was my Saturday night, that, and a few Red Box movies.
“You know you’re old,” I tell Old Dirty, “when going out to the bar or the club pale in comparison to a night of stuffing your gullet with shit that will explode your heart one day.”
Where I’m going with this, I don’t really know.
My mind feels like the fractals from Infinite Jest.
You probably have to be a douche to get that reference, but whatever.
Steven Soderbergh (http://www.deadline.com/2013/04/steven-soderbergh-state-of-cinema-address/) recently gave a speech on the state of cinema, and he confirmed all the things that I had been feeling. Basically, that studio executives are in the business of making money and not in the business of making cinema, which if you’re reading between the lines, it means as a writer, I know what I should probably be writing about if I want to make it in this business. The trouble is, though, is that I don’t want to write about some bullshit teenager who discovers he has a superpower and how he manages to get the girl and save the world. That kind of stuff or any variation of it, just doesn’t interest me.
The Girls in Hoodies podcast on Grantland.com have an interesting take on it all (http://espn.go.com/espnradio/grantland/player?id=9256396).
Like me, they wonder why women and minorities aren’t fairly represented in cinema. You should check it out if you have the time.
Damn. It’s only Sunday and already the Doritos, the Coke, and the chips and salsa are all gone.
Whoever the girl is that took that picture, I just want to thank you for reading my stuff. Little things like that are what keep me going as I try to figure out my next move as a writer. I’ve been jumping in and out of my manuscript questioning myself every step of the way because that’s what you do when you’re a struggling artist.
I don’t think I’ve seen you in any of my book talks, but from your tattoos, you do seem like a cool person to have a drink with one day.
This isn’t me asking you out on a date, although I have to admit, it would be fun to have a burrito with some tattooed chick.
Taco Bell or Del Taco? You pick.
I’m just rambling and killing time before I have to sit back on my chair and write the words.
Oh, the self-loathing!!
I should probably end this blog with a positive note.
I brushed my teeth today, so I guess that’s a step in the right direction.
Is it too late for ice cream?
I’m about to find out.
My dad sent me a picture from India today, and for the first time in my life, I told him to go to hell. Some people will never be as cool as their father, and I am one of those few.
Indian food sounds like a good idea.