Ranty Time
//start rant//
How many people do you know who’ve said at some point “I’m going to write a book someday,” like they’re qualified to do so because they can almost, sometimes, spell difficult words like “the” and “and?”
You know a lot of those people. Because they’re everywhere. And a whole great horde of them actually compile those books. I’d say write, but that hurts my soul.
And you know what? It irks me. Because that’s my job. I take it seriously. I’ve worked hard at it, studied it, practiced it, failed horribly at at and discovered new things about it. I don’t pretend that it’s easy to do well.
But, apparently, because everyone learns how to “write” in school, anyone can do it, right?
Right?
So here’s what I’m thinking. I can cut a steak with a knife. That means I could totally be a surgeon, right? How different can it be? I’ve peeled the skin off a chicken breast. And I can count–mostly, but hey, that’s what calculators are for, right?–so I’m also going to someday be a banker–maybe on Wall Street! I’ve seen Fox News–all those guys do is buy Jaguars and make eleventy bajillion dollars a second.
Oh! My phone takes pictures. I’m totally going to be a professional photographer.
I can drive my car on the interstate, too–so I have a sterling future in NASCAR! I can learn to speak Tennesee, I’m sure, so I’ll fit right in. Y’all.
I have painted the wall of my house before–so I can be an ARTIST, too! This just gets better and better.
Fuck.
Here’s all I ask: I’m a firm believer than anyone can try to do anything, so long as they’re willing to work hard, learn, and accept that they might fail. But not everyone *can* do everything. I will never be an astronaut. I’ll probably never be a pilot, and I’ll for certain never play professional sports. I don’t pretend that I will, despite the fact that I write science fiction, have flown in a plane and understand the science, and have, in the past, played Horse with a basketball.
Don’t pretend you’re good at something you’re not. I can pick dandelions out of my yard and put them in a cup and set that cup on the table, but I don’t pretend I’m a florist. Knowing the motions does not make you a professional.
//end rant//
Our Hero Ponders Violence
(parental advisory–a graceful muchness of profanity follows in this post–you have been warned)
Two things occurred this morning on my way to work, and I feel I should share them with you, in case tomorrow you wake up and Vancouver is no longer in the news, but instead there’s a small story about a writer from corn-fed country in jail for road rage.
- If you’re a bicyclist, please remember that you have to obey the same traffic laws as those of us lazy bastards who choose to drive cars. I’m speaking here, of course, to you, bearded hemp-wearing “I’m-too-cool-for-internal- combustion” FUCKING ASSHAT whom I nearly ran over this morning because YOU RAN THE FUCKING RED LIGHT right in front of me.It should be not only legal, but Constitutionally-required that I chase you down and run you over with my Corolla. I have said this many times; I am quite happy to share the road with you, but there’s no way in Zeus’ sparky butthole that I’m going to yield the road to you.
- Some of the many wonderful things I rarely use that my tax dollars pay for are very nice, offset concrete sidewalks, away from the big scary roads where the shiny metal monsters (read: automobiles) speed past. If I’ve kindly donated some of the portion of my livelihood the government so kindly appropriates without asking me to such considerate accommodations, DO ME THE FUCKING COURTESY OF USING THEM.Yes, I’m speaking here to you, anti-social non-bather with the bat-infested beard and 1974 tennis shoes and four shirts on-at-one-time DIPSHIT walking down the side of the road, in traffic, THREE FUCKING FEET FROM A SIDEWALK. You’re a fucking idiot, and I hope you get hit by a 19-yr-old sorostitute texting on her phone. With a shitty Jersey Shore tan and a pierced eyebrow.
a glass tinted…
I begin to wonder if people call other people assholes because they are, in fact, comparable to the rectum or because those people doing the name-calling are secretly envious because they can’t bring themselves to be honest out of fear.
Fear exists, in every day and every situation. I have been a victim of it nearly every day of my life, I’m sure. As have you. As has the person next to you. Honesty is brutal–or else it is not, in fact, honesty. Truth is, or it is not–you cannot delineate different degrees of it.
Tell the truth, whether it is hurtful or not.
Good morning!
And how are all of you this fine morning? Wonderful! I’ve been awake since four-thirty am, when my fucktasticdickwadshitbag neighbors decided that staying up drinking on Monday night (well into Tuesday morning) just couldn’t be done indoors in the predawn hours, and so decided to migrate to their balcony and continue their “look, I’ve got a bigger dick than you” shouted conversation in the cool air.
So evidenly there’s a dude named James that lives just off of Hillside… and no shit, he’s shacked up with a white girl! de-amn! Brother got mad skillz, yo! Man, that’d be trippin, livin’ down there with that chick Gina.
Of course, the funny part is, when I looked off my own balcony (and damn, it’s cold at 4:30am when you’re not wearing anything but some loungers and a scowl) I saw that it was four white guys. So, instead of sitting down and wishing for the umpteenth time that I’d invested in that pistol I’d wanted… I did laundry. And dishes. And ironed. And cleaned the house. And now’s it 7:30, and I’m thinking maybe some breakfast before I go to work.
![Trolltunga extreme [explored]](http://static.flickr.com/7082/7263574706_ae04cd869d_t.jpg "Trolltunga extreme [explored]")
