I’m working on an autobiographical comic book right now while I still have the luxury of only one job. Like my books and screenplays and short stories, I don’t have a clear story to keep everything intact. All things I create, including this blog, are “bursts of creativity” (Burrell) that express my current mindset instead of describing it in a linear story. I like it better that way. Short and simple and I can articulate my angst by demonstration, however inaccessible. There’s got to be a market for that in this attention deficient nation.
The story’s about love, like all my other stuff. It’s dynamic, moving, moving, moving, like all my other stuff. And, it’s sexually explicit, like all my other stuff. I don’t know if society has made me so sexually amoral or if my brain isn’t progressive enough to think past my own enormous hog.* Maybe it’s a combination of both. Either way, Freud deserves a high five.
I only mention the comic book because if you see me commenting around the blogosphere, “liking” your Facebook status, or writing an irrelevant three-paragraph post about my deviant thoughts, I’ve wrestled my imagination to a standstill (that’s not a masturbatory reference, you dirty beast), and I’m avoiding looking at my flaccid artistry directly in its cyclopic eye (masturbatory reference). So, don’t encourage me!
*Did you click on the link? Perv. But seriously, I get that.