Welcome back, boys, girls and in-betweeners. 

I don’t write anymore. I don’t draft tweets, I don’t journal, and I certainly don’t have any content for this site. I’ve become an idea guy; I think writing, I dream about telling the world what I think of it, but I don’t write. I want to. I love to. So I am, despite these and the multitudes more of reasons not to.

+ Let’s look at my last blog post, where I introduced a summer series in which I would show off all the cool things I’ve been doing in a creative, fun narrative. Nope. I sat on the first post of that series for a few days until I realized why I wrote it, and why I put together the whole Radison Bumgarner thing; I wanted to show off. Specifically, and I mean it when I say I’ve been haunted by this idea (Idea guy, remember that), I came up with a preposterous premise for telling my ex-wife that I was thriving. That was it. I wanted veritable, internet proof that I was cool, and I wanted her to see it.

  Why would I want to write that? It’s embarrassing. I’ve spent most of my life obsessing over what people think about me and how I can impress them. I want everyone to be proud of me, but that creates an uber-prideful situation too easily. That’s not me. 

I don’t give a FuCKin HOOOT what my ex thinks of me, past or present, and I am getting closer every day to being on the same level with you. I don’t want to care about how I come off, how I compare to others, or how y’all want me to be. I do care, but I don’t want to.

+ Here’s another reason, I know you wanted it! 

When your favorite artist sings about the people in their lives, its mysterious. Who is that love song about? Who is special enough to get a poet written for them, or an album dedicated to? When I consider tweeting out some sappy shit, or blogging about something I learned from a past relationship, y’all know exactly who I’m talking about. Like three girls have ever liked me, and I have vastly differing feelings towards them. Unfortunately, those are the only real relationships I’ve had, they’ve all ended tragically (IMO) (I guess this is all IMO, its my blog) and, going back to the aforementioned mindfuck, I’m crippled by the idea that I have to be someone I’m not, someone who can shed the weight of the past. I think about the three of them an asinine amount, and while Beth is a perfect human being and I’m typing this on the two-year anniversary of when we met, I’m chained to what they think about me. I love them all, and I guess that will never change? Idk, someone let me know asap. I wanna free up some brain space.

+Ya know what? Have another reason.

… what if I’m bad? What if I dive back into being a creator and type out every queer thought, draw every monster in my head, and they suck? Yes, art is subjective, but I have an English degree. I’m a professional writer. I’m a trained photographer. If I’m as bad at these things as I tell myself I am, I’ll get raked over the coals. Or at least, I think I will. 

I’m not in the market of commissioning paintings or selling screenplays, I post on instagram. That’s how we value things nowadays, with likes and those sweet, sultry RTs. I know you know when one of your posts doesn’t get as many hearts as you wanted. You’re miffed that your latest workout selfie went unnoticed. Me too, anxiously so. So I don’t write.

Straightforward reason I don’t write: I allegedly partake in illicit activities from time to time. If I felt comfortable sharing my opinion on herbs and booze and pills that make the walls dance with you at shows and all the new ways to open your eyes, I would. But that’s stuff I don’t write.

+The last reason that I can think of right now?

There’s a Slim Shady in all of us. That voice that discounts you at every turn. Nothing but love to Em, but fuck Slim.

I talk myself through almost every situation in my head. When I drive to work, I imagine every step I take into the office, and every conversation I might have. With every word I add he’s telling me that I’m wasting my time. I take my meds. My friends like me. I work hard at both my jobs and I love my mama. But every interaction I have with someone outside of my head makes me feel like a freak on display.

So I rehearse every line, down to how I sound when I order another drink even though the last time I ordered I slurred a little but I got it this time, I’ll order something fancy so this barkeep thinks I have good taste, but he must cut me off and started giving me water because this shit gin is broken; I don’t feel anything.