I take writing seriously.
It never does me any good.
We only have 80 years on the planet—what else can we do?
My friend called me from Israel.
When I tell people this, they ask if he’s Jewish.
No—he’s very much American—blonde hair, blue eyes, loves hamburgers, pizza, gas-guzzling trucks, and always wears an American flag for a t-shirt.
“What are you up to, man?”
“I sat next to a girl on the plane. She had piercings and tattoos.”
“Oh—those are red flags.”
“She asked me how old I was, and I told her to guess. She thought I was 23. I’m 32. I don’t want to become a womanizer, man.” I could sense the desire in his voice. “She smoked, and she told me she was divorced.”
“Man, she has more red flags than a Chinese Communist Parade.”
“Do you want to go to Turkey?” My friend asked.
“I don’t know.”
When I traveled with him before, his sister came along to keep him calm. With his other red-pilled friend, I think I would surely die. I just like to write… It gives me stimulation to think, I have enemies that read my blog—Senators, looking for an excuse to shove a sword in Caesar’s back.
I may think too highly of myself.
“What have you been doing?” My friend asked.
“I’ve been riding my bike, writing, playing golf, smiling at pretty women, and writing about it.”
“You need to do something else.”
“I do things, so I can write them down. When the disease progresses to the mind, it’s similar to the disease of getting older.”
“You can’t do anything about old age. There’s less to write about, and I have the need to write more.”
“You need experiences, man.”
“I’ve had enough of humanity. There are people who keep calling me to hang-out, but I don’t want to. When I was 23, I needed other people, but they never needed me. Now, the reverse is true. After years of tough love (which means no love at all) I enjoy being by myself.”
“Dude, you sound like a narcissist.”
“I’m a writer. We’re all that way. We are so impressed with ourselves, we write it down, believing we have something to say.”