What the heck do I write about damnit?

Also known as what happens when I don't know what I'm doing.


Anything you say? FANTASTIC. That totally narrows my options down to a fine point. If my options were colour in a pencil crayon, I could totally colour inside the finest pictures so long as they are a mile wide.

I don’t know why I stopped writing though. Sometimes I’ll get e-mails commenting about my posts, telling me “Hey dude, this is awesome” or “this post is beautiful”. So I’ll re-read what was posted: who the hell wrote this? Not me. This writer was actually funny! His thoughts were on things that were so trivial and yet so prevalent that…

Why am I using big words? No. Stop. No big words. Head out of your pretentious bum, Phil, you’re here to write for fun, not a damn philosophy paper.

Speaking of which, guess who is now a philosophy major? As if the huge majority of the people who are ever going to read this didn’t know that already, but it never hurts to say it again. Does it? No? Guess who is now a philosophy major? Me. Cause I have so many big ideas, I just had to get marked for them. You know, instead of committing it to the harshest critics in the universe: ZE INTERNET.

Gotta admit though, it feels good to be typing things on my mind not relating to solipsism or faith, or existence or whether existence can exist. Wat.

So here I am writing while listening to this song here on repeat while waiting for a video to upload. Did I ever really imagine that I was going to write for a living? Heck naw. As one of my buddies puts it, “I cannot be assed” but why? Why can’t I? Because I have no idea what to write about!

One last time: what am I to write about? Here’s a new thought: why don’t I do what I do best and rage? Every single good post I’ve written, or whatever past me wrote because, good golly, he writes differently. In any case, every post that really has made me proud has been one of rage and critique. Poetry? I’m far too blunt and it’s like watching a dog navigate through a hoarder’s china collection chasing the car that just crashed through the house because…. oh god what am I even writing.

But definitely not poetry: if I can’t even get a good analogy out of my brain without it completely falling apart, a poem is going to be far too much mental malaise.

So let’s converse. Let’s talk. Let’s shout and yell and rail against things that don’t make sense, and you can all make fun of me.

Phil, it’s time to meet the world: this time, for reals bro.



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