accept defeat.

A blog, like the lover of a dramatic bore, gets punished with silence. Would you believe me if I told you there was nothing to say?

No, probably not.

I have thought and I’ve thought of quitting, really and for good, and about how stupid words feel now or how being a person in this place where I am so fucking sick of people and their never ending person problems that I can’t stomach the reality that my voice and my bullshit blah blah blahing endlessly about these plans that come and go is just one more whining white person on coffee in the world.

In short I haven’t written in weeks because I am absolutely sick of myself, depressed, and raving and pathetic from starvation and poverty, stressed well past the point of despair with the hopeless task of defending my completely economically ridiculous life I lead while trying to pursue an even more ridiculous dream or series of dreams about things I don’t think I really even believe in any more… its just that I don’t know what to be after admitting all these dreams are stupid. I bet it all on those fucking things and if they were to be as stupid and doomed as they appear to me now then… well… then I might go and “do something crazy” like mom warned me not to do. When I pressed her for a definition she said: “you know, no jumping off of ledges or anything.” Only mothers can see straight into the heart of a boy and understand it all.

So what else was there to do but go back into the dark laboratory of my mind wallow in my memories and start drawing out new dreams, new plans, like architectural drawings of structures built in time, dependent on space but variably, two dimensional. What do I really want to be? I used to say a writer but I know now that I’ll never make a penny for this narcassistic smut. My adventures were all fine and good but there are thousands of people who did those same things and I just can’t get past myself enough to see what it was about that time that makes it legitimately worth sharing.

It is kind of a joke to think of realistically trying to make a living off of paper making. Or art making for the matter. If it can’t get you fucked, fucked up or skinnier Americans just aren’t buying it. So what to do with a steady hand, composition training, endless practice drawing lines and a hateful disposition which is still technically an art? TATTOOS!

The new plan: purchase a machine, some ink, sterilization… stuff, needles, crazy foot pedal thing, and then I start practicing on my thighs. They are long and probably the meatiest parts of my body and nobody ever sees them. If I learn tattooing as quickly as I did screen printing or etching or any of this other archaic means of wasting my life then I think that in a few years I can probably call myself a tattoo artist. Until then I will be one more hill billy piece of shit giving jailhouse tattoos to creeps for drugs and somehow all of that feels much better to me than walking around hoping that somebody reads all of this nonsense and gives me a chance. That dream is definitively over.

I went out and got me a real job and I’ll work it every day and I’ll be so boring that I won’t make people uncomfortable anymore. In fact, I’ll be just like everybody else. Its just that some day I’m going to be free or I’ll die the best and worst plan making slave there ever was.

You win world. I throw the towel in. Otis Mixon isn’t a writer. He doesn’t even really exist. He’s just another self centered hipster with internet access and a WPM that’s higher than… well… me most days.