Tag Archives: My Plant

The Pursuit of Inevitable Failure: Preface

Authors Note: Yes, I’m fully aware the last post was called the prologue, and the preface precedes the prologue.  Well, something happened before I was ready to publish what I intended to be Chapter One.  At least one or none of the four versions of. 

What happened you don’t ask? Well…

“Your writing is funny. I like it. I don’t care what other people say.” – Anonymous Microbrewed Breath Source

The last time I submitted something I wrote for public scorn, I informed you of the decision to leave my career of ten years in the radio business to pursue my dream of becoming a professional screenwriter.

A career where I was lucky enough to be a part of promotions ranging from the inspired to the absurd.

A career developing relationships with people that became kin, and people that were cuffed and processed for crimes worthy of Friday night primetime programming.

Between that moment and now, really haven’t had much to write about.  Just a 16-hour drive with a house plant and squatty potty where I was introduced to Rear Admiral George Cockburn and Maryland Medical Marijuana.  An arrival to a city where I faced the prospect of living with a man the 15-year-old version of me proclaimed never wanting to share a residence with again.  A summit where I learned the harsh reality of becoming a professional screenwriter and how delusional I would be to continue on that path.  A moment of almost total emotional breakdown wondering what the fuck I just did with my life.  Watching a cat eat my child/plant while her cross-eyed sister stared at me and the fly on the wall behind her. The moment my 90 year old grandmother read off the dashboard what type of porn I watched.

And the phone call while I was an online video classroom that informed me a person I once loved very dearly but fell out of touch with suddenly died and the uncomfortable time warp that followed.

So, as you can clearly see, I really didn’t have much to sit down and blog about.  Thank God though, I ran into this person I know so little about that I don’t feel comfortable including the word know in the same sentence.

I won’t give any detail to the person, to the content of the conversation, or its context.  It’s not about her. It’s about, well, transparency.

That’s a total horseshit, it’s because if I don’t write this I’m going to fucking explode!

“Your writing is funny. I like it. I don’t care what other people say.”-Anonymous Microbrewed Breath Source.

It wasn’t so much the words, okay, it was. But the randomness of it all.  My response:

“Love you, thanks for reading.”

I don’t know where the bold-faced lie came from because, well, I was actually leaving an establishment when this now subject showed up beside me in their Camel smoke stained hoodie.

And I further don’t know what my countenance consisted of with these…I have really big eyebrows. And when I’m perplexed or pissed, they turn into a pair of burnt crinkle cut french fries providing the viewer a virtual look into my soul.

I shook my head and b-lined for the door.

As I re-entered daylight/reality after opening and shutting the popcorn butter, booze and tar-sticky portal of this one time all too familiar dwelling; a meteor shower flurry of responses assaulted my psyche. Yet, with every wave of nasty, go for the jugular insulting inquiry that rushed it’s way to my lips for me to projectile vomit all over them; the more steps I took in the opposite direction in my two years beyond help Clark clogs.

Was it cowardice? Was it fear? They’ve never shut me up before, so why the fuck would they now in this Super Bowl-like opportunity for my vulgar creativity to shine?

Because I knew I was better than that…Or, with a little more humility, what would have it accomplished?

“Names! I want names!”

What, was I going to interrogate them as if they knew the whereabouts of Geraldo’s sources for Al Capones vault?

“Please, what are people whose BAC is higher than their IQ saying about what I write?”

As if their comments were as vicious as the $99.89 TV Stand reviews on Walmart.com.

As if I wouldn’t do the same fucking thing.

I’m neither ignorant nor obtuse my friends.  I realize what comes with putting out things like this out there.  It’s multi-layered in its purpose, ranging from practice to preparing for the unfortunate reality of what awaits.

But at the end of the day, I have to tell you…

It ain’t fucking easy.  I mean it. It’s really quite hard.

When you first put it out there, you get this rush of adrenaline that puts a mischevious smile on your face like a guy eating pineapple on a first date.

Which is followed by penis shriveling terror.

I don’t know how many of you can possibly fathom how much scrutiny this glob of LSD, THC, and CTE between my ears can create.

But that’s reality.

And I will say this about any and all comments…

They are welcomed, expected, accepted, respected, and most importantly, encouraged.

Why did I write all of this?

Because it makes me feel better.  And now, I do.

Just remember the brilliant words of Grace Slick:

“Let them say we’re crazy, what do they know?”

We being me, my squatty potty and of course, my plant.

Me and my plant






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