Finding A Voice

When the day ends, I'm pretty sure the only one who's influenced by my ramblings is myself. I have to reread what I say a lot, and I often doubt I'm the one who said it. I'm not sure I've gotten the feeling its me when I'm reading whatever I crapped out the night before, it has always sounded like a different person. (until yesterday)

Usually my first draft of anything sounds like a raving art student who got mad because he turned his girlfriend into a hardcore lesbian. Now my stuff sounds like a raving student who got mad because he found out he got played by a high schooler. I'm comfortable with the voice of the latter. He sounds like someone who's honest, well built, and ungodly talented.

So why care about me and my writing? The process. All of it. You shouldn't. My good looks don't transcend to the written word. Sure, you can feel my awesome coming off the page, but you need to see it to witness my true form. Anyway, you're still here reading me, which suggest a multitude (or slew) of things I can assume about you. I will now categorize all of you into three groups:

1.) That you're the kind of person who likes to procrastinate so much that they'll read blogs as opposed to work.
2.) You check away messages so often that when you've gone through your whole list of people and have nothing to do, so you've moved on to read a blog or two.
3.) You love me more then Jesus could, so you check this blog just because I made it for people like you.

There are no other reasons. Not in my eyes. As people, we try to rationalize and explain our world by the very standards that govern our lives. Notice how I did not put "crazy sex pot" in as a possible explanation. That is because I've never experience one. We cannot expand on the reasons why things happen. But sometimes we don't need to. Sometimes we're right the first time. Like when I say there are people who drink beer and then there is the rest of you poor bastards. Now that is true. It's the way its always been. Since before time. Since before God. Since before the first rays of light were sprung upon this universe and creation began, there have always been drunks in a bar, together, alone in the dark, drinking while the power is out. There is a name for these people. Champions. Champions of strength and conviction. They are the moral leaders and the studious gentleman who will remove us from our mundane lives for just a moment, amuse us with a joke, maybe get so drunk they show us their willy, then throw up all over Aric Berg's car. These are the people I admire. These people, drunk in the dark, only know their drink and know the value of their voice. These are voices I admire, voices that silence only to drink. This is a voice that calmly holds up its glass, no matter how many drunk it may be, and proclaims to the world "Cheers, bitches".

Cheers indeed.

Reminders for the class: Why doesn't listerine taste good? Why does it always leave the sensation of burning ass stuck in my mouth? I don't know. Go ask Mr. Owl.