My mother is worried that I am committing career suicide
if a future employer reads my blog
“That’s okay with me,” I said. “One gets a certain thrill out of playing Russian Roulette— kinda like gambling, with something to lose.”
“But they’ll think you’re mentally imbalanced,” she said. “You don’t believe all those things you write, do you?” She asked, pleadingly.
“Of course, I do! It’s coming straight from my soul!”
“Then you need to get your heart right with Jesus,” she said.
“I pray, every day, and God talks to me—where do you think my ideas come from?”
“They are coming from somewhere else. You don’t seem happy.”
“Well… we’re basically chemicals—any bad feelings are due to an imbalance.”
“God will give you balance,” my mother said.
“I need my highs and lows.”
“God will make you happy all of the time.”
“I don’t want that. What did you think of my latest poem?”
“I think it is the worst one you have ever written!” She said. “You are so judgmental.”
Maybe, I am a horrible human being, I thought.
I went to the library, on a sunny Saturday. A big part of me wants to blow up.
I checked-out a book on esoteric mysticism. The writer is a guy who electrocuted himself, and took various chemicals so that he might gain higher consciousness.
An Indian girl without any feathers checked me out, while I was checking-out my book.
It’s strange how the universe aligns—they call it synchronicity.
I flipped on the radio, and the guy said, “the number one anti-aging potion is green tea, and you should also drink cranberry juice—it’s full of anti-oxidants.”
Perhaps, my mother is right—this writing is getting really bad, but I feel liberated in a certain way.
If I ignore the critics, and keep going
nothing can stop me.
And this is a great lesson that all of you should learn:
Ultimately, the only person who can stop you, is yourself. All the rest is noise.
I went for a walk with my mother in the woods. She’s 75, now, and I haven’t given her a heart-attack yet—although, sometimes, I make her sad.
“I have this idea about a guy who is afraid of moving-on with his life. He goes to a doctor, who recommends him to a psychiatrist. Doctor Fear prescribes several mental health exercises, and when he doesn’t follow through, strange things happen to him. His phones are bugged, and his psychiatrist threatens him with murder. He has a cane with a sword in it, and…”
“That sounds awful,” my mother said. “I hope that you don’t write it! Where are you getting your ideas from? You need to spend more time in church.”
“But mom, I’m already going twice a week. I’m getting more inspiration now, than ever before.”
“How will you ever get married?” She asked.
“Well… I’ve been thinking about deleting my blog,” I said seriously.
“Really?” She asked, hopefully.
“No,” I smiled.