Cthulhu

I'm easily inspired. Sometimes I'm convinced that I've never had an original thought; I just take all media I ingest and then spit it back out all Bretted up. My "original screenplay" is a rip off of Shaun of the Dead and The Incredibles. My sitcom pilot is an homage to The Office from before it exploded on this side of the pond. Everything I write that I think is funny, or that I think should be funny, is based on an inside joke that only a select few get (or this is what I'm told; I'm convinced everyone thinks Echo Base drama is hilarious). To be honest, I don't write much at all. For someone who claims to be a writer, who empathizes with anything and everything having to do with those who write, I don't do a whole lot of it. This is it. This and typing into Excel spreadsheets at The Big Kid Job. I read in a book of interviews with comic book writers that most writers hate the process but love the outcome. I agree with that. Writing sucks, especially when you're as harsh and judgmental as myself.

To write you have to be smart. Or, should I say, to write well you have to be smart. My main insecurity (aside from still struggling with acne, my gray hair, being 5'6", and occasionally mispronouncing words) is my intelligence. Numero uno. Most of the time I feel like a fake, like I've somehow conned people into thinking I'm a lot smarter than I am. Read back over this blog; you could probably find places to trade in my $2 words for $5 or $7 ones. This could be structured better, my use of grammar is horrible, and you'd be shocked at the number of words I have to look up to make sure they mean what I think they mean (you can't always rely on comics to teach new words).

My insecurity about my intelligence comes up every time anyone discusses politics. I should know more about that stuff (see, "stuff," I'm sure there's a better word), I should want to read about it, I should want to care. But no. I instead spend fifteen minutes looking at preview images of action figures from the upcoming Spider-Man 3. Shouldn't I be an adult now? When does that happen? Does it happen anymore? I read an article in "Time" about the delay of adulthood well into the late 20s/early 30s due to the extended amount of time it takes to get through school. This leaves our generation stuck trying to figure ourselves out at the exact same age that my parents were married at. Married with a kid.

My self-loathing subsides every morning on the subway for a brief second when I'm able to look out the window and see the Statue of Liberty. Not that this is a huge deal; I'm more a fan of the lady's work in Ghostbusters II than the inspiring of huddled masses (and yes, I had to double check that she was in the sequel). Just for that bit of time, I'm reminded that I'm a middle-clas guy from Murfreesboro, Tennessee...in New York City...an alumnus of The Late Show...working for a pretty darn impressive company in my field...with all sorts of opportunities laid out for me (a smarter person would put a metaphor here...or maybe just a pretentious one). After all, one can't do improv in Tennessee without it taking place in someone's living room. And only in their living room, like, you're not doing it anywhere else. That's it.

Thus bringing me to my constant source of joy and self doubt. I think I'm good at improv, I think a lot of my day-to-day interaction with human beings could be considered improv, I want to be good at it. But then I'll get in scenes where I don't know what an epi-pen is, or heaven help me when politics enters into a scene. This could easily be solved by, I don't know, reading about some things and building knowledge. Maybe I should add that to 2007: Kill The Beast. The Beast is gaining ground tonight. A wee bit o' ground.

Wednesday is Valentine's Day. I could go on and on about that, but truth be told I'm ready to just move on. I know things are over and I even shaved to commemorate this. But it still sucks. And being lonely on Valentine's Day...I'm used to it. At least I have Lost.

Oh, and lastly, I wish I had more insightful things to post here. Or wittier things. Is it wrong that I hate how I come across on message boards? I read other people's posts and think "how did they think of that?" or "why can't I come across as funny?" I can't explain how much of my day is spent wondering if what I'm about to type is funny. This sure isn't funny, or maybe it is because it's honest and I'm not trying to be funny. Wow, the mind boggles.

I'm also cutting back on reviewing things because I think I suck at it. Unless it's something I hate. I write pretty spectacularly when I dislike something. If only Rob Liefeld would make more comics. Or...well, he makes them, I guess the variable is me buying them.

Geez, I don't know where all this comes from. Actually, it comes from reading my friend Shawn Lieving's blog and wishing that I had such insightful and naturally hilarious stories to tell. Truth be told, the most exciting part of my day was seeing that "sloths" sketch on SNL.

Now I'm going to go eat cocaine off America's gravestone.