Thursday, 15 August 2013

Chin Up...

My mood has not improved despite quite a restful night sleep. What's wrong with me this week?!

Yesterday, or last night if you will, Tag, Cherry, Red, Pill, and I went to the pub, the new look Western, only slightly brighter than the old look Western. And it's brilliant how alcohol can improve a bad day. That's a bad sentence to say, but damn, it does...

We ate, sang, mid-air humped to Whistle While I Work It, and defused texts all in the name of cool and sexiness. I showed the girls at work WWIWI and they loved it, starting to mid-air hump and sing and everything in the staff room. And a nice time, more or less, was had.

Now, the other day, and he brought it up last night, Pill mentioned something that I thought was quite, not poetic, it's not poetic at all, but it is kind of motivating, and gear grinding at the same time. Just write, was what he essentially said, just write. It doesn't matter what you write, what you have written, what you're feeling or any of that shit. Have deadlines, have off days, and have crap writing. Nothing's perfect, nothing ever will be. It won't work out the way you want it to half the time, but you've got to do it to realise that it won't work. You've just got to go, set out, and write muthafucker. Or else, how can you call yourself a writer? That's how real writers do it. They don't sit down and plan all the time, they just sit down, every day, and write something. They give themselves deadlines every week, and they keep to those deadlines or else what's the point?

Quite right Pill, quite right. As it is in life, so too shall it be in writing. 

I've decided I'm not going to visit the person Tag's colleague was trying to set me up with, and no it's not just because of the name. I did try visiting her yesterday to no avail. No, I'm not going to go visit her a. because it's Tag's colleague trying to set me up and not Tag, b. because she fancied Tag first, and c. because let's be honest, it's the name. You try saying your parent's name in the throws of passion. It doesn't make for a pretty picture.

I know I'm no arsehole, I've tried doing that, and it didn't work out then. I'm me. I can be a dick sometimes, but I'm more than likely going to be labelled as a nice guy, and that image conjures up thoughts of jumpers and ties, in coupley dinner parties, holding a glass of orange juice due to being the designated driver, and glasses for some reason - not sure why. Right now, I just want to be a dinosaur again, like I did when I was five.

All in all, I'm not ready yet. I haven't slimmed down to my fullest, I haven't bulked out to my maxest, and I haven't become my bestest yet. I'm not as bad as I was, very encouraging words indeed. 

Let's roll on Sunday then.

Carpe diem...

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