Aug 12, 2001I've been having trouble creating anything lately. The well is dry. I'm ready for a job but question my ability to find one. My girlfriend's website gets about sixteen times the traffic that mine does. I consider most IM's nuisances now. I consider email a chore.
The thrill is gone - the thrill has gone away.
Where I have chosen to apply myself - I have failed. My site sucks, I'm not a very good software developer. I just lack the spark. I lack the courage to be bold with design, and I lack the discipline to code like a motherfuck.
I'm embarassed at the weakness that I've exposed of myself here, yet if I abandon this site as a psychological dumping ground, then it's only virtue - it's voyeuristic appeal, is gone. I know I'm taking this too seriously. But it's one of the very few places that I have challenged myself in the last 6 months, and I have failed.
A life of fucking and drinking beer and going to rock shows and goofing off with friends sounds really good about now. I didn't take a lot of chances when I was young. I wouldn't take a chance on something unless there was a good chance of success. I mastered game after game. I never got caught when I did bad things - I anticipated. Then I discovered girls and social situations - I mastered them too. I'm nice to look at. I smile at people - and mean it. Those two facts account for 90% of where I am in life. And it's feeling flimsy now.
There is something fundamentally wrong. It seems like people are being born with so many brain cells that living complete, contented, and happy lives is impossible. There is something lacking socially, spiritually... something. The peg not fitting the hole begs the question: change the peg or the hole? It's tempting to burn enough brain cells out with dope and booze to be happy. But what if that's the wrong choice? See, I'm always worried about the alternatives. I'm worried about missing out. What if I could find a use for those spare brain cells? It intuitively feels like a cop-out.
I am not an artist. I create to pacify. I have this energy that needs to go somewhere. So I paint. I make websites. I write shitty poetry. I flail around on the guitar. These outlets no longer adequately serve that purpose. The energy remains ... builds up ... and ultimately paralyzes me. And sometimes I just create for someone else to pat me on the head and say, "you're smart", "you're funny", "you're slick", "you're a good boy Evan".
If you have a website, link me. If your friends have sites, have them link me too.
... and tell me what a good boy I am.