The Last Giant Ground Sloth

Proposed Title

Values I Hold. Values I Reject. Any resemblance to How My Life is Actually Lived Being Purely Coincidental

Why write this?

First, I have this giant fucking monkey on my back. Anybody else old enough to remember Grape Ape? That’s how big this monkey on my back is. For no reason I can fathom, I have this overwhelming urge to write unreadable nonsense that will never be read, or if read, ever actually be understood. And, perhaps rather curiously, this addiction, if you will, gives not so much as a fart in a windstorm if I write about the meaning of life or which brand of drain cleaner gives the most value for the money. It don’t care about subject, it only cares about action. And that action is writing. So, for at least as long as this beast is making it s presence known in what passes for my life, well, I’ve gotta write about something.

And it just so happens I do have a topic I sort of wish to explore, but barring the above, never would. I’m just too lazy. So, for the present, compulsion has trumped sloth, and I figure I should just go with it, discipline myself to write in something a bit closer to coherency than I am here, and hopefully grind out a few thousand words. Yep, just another blogger burbling away incessantly, compelled by demons or angels or terminal constipation to,to, to,…gah, write. And not just write. Write something that starts somewhere, on some position or other, and ends up either accepting, rejecting or pureeing said position as the last little turd bomb of self-righteous flatulent prose strikes the screen. The “pureeing” bit would hopefully be an acknowledgment of where I’m right, where I’m wrong, whether or not I should ever bother to incorporate this acknowledgment into anything anywhere other than in a tedious and ultimately Worm Ouroboros–like essay.

And, hell, I suppose it is also possible that an essay like the one that’s on the drawing board might make a difference I my life. I am certainly by and large a worthless failure, but on rare occasions I suppose I rise above myself. Perhaps I can somehow do that a bit more if I gain some deep understanding of how I’m stuck together. Or finally work up the courage to stick a pistol in my mouth and pull the trigger.

Though I doubt either fate awaits me, whether or not I write this essay, or another word for that matter. But I suppose that sets the perimeter upon which things shall proceed, if nothing else.

Why NOT write this?

There’s almost too many reasons to even begin to list them out here. Actually, there ARE too many reasons, since I’m to lazy to do anything approaching a complete list. But, let’s run through a couple, and try them on for size.

Okay, first off, I am the world’s worst writer. Or would be if that Twilight Twat hadn’t come onto the scene. Her I bow down to as my superior. As I must to anyone who can write books that sell millions of copies where nothing happens, no one does anything and apparently the little bit that does happen fails to make any kind of sense. That I gotta respect. But putting that aside, the likely result of any serious attempt at writing is the sort of thing returned in Freshman composition covered in red ink. And who the hell needs to read something like that unless they’re getting paid to? And who the hell needs to write something like that unless they’re doing it as a going through the motions getting your ticket punched kind of thing? And I see no rebuttal to either of the previous questions.

Second, this is going to involve work. Real honest to goodness work. Am I capable of such a thing? Am I capable of even trying to be capable of such a thing? Shit, I could push this back into some kind of infinite regression. But that makes my head hurt, so fuck that. Anyways, I’ve done virtually nothing constructive, laborious, intense, original and certainly worthwhile for the past three years. And here I am, cooking up a few thousand word diatribe where I will doubtless give far too much out of my personal life as I move with all the effect of polishing marble with one’s tongue. I’ve seen no evidence I am capable of hard work any longer. It just ain’t there. And there’s enough abortions in this world without me leaving another bag of goo in a dumpster. Or half-finished collection of thoughts that go nowhere and meander as they get there. Same thing.

And, hell, if I’ve suddenly and spontaneously come up with a work ethos, there’re about 47,000 other ways to go that would be far more productive, make at least a few of the people in your life a bit better able to tolerate you and probably even be more likely to actually have a final result. But nope, this is what I’m planning to do. Dogshit.

And, yeah, what I briefly touched on before. I might give away something that – heaven forbid – could tie the contents of this essay back to its author in real life. I shudder at the thought. Doubtless it will be something I’ll be on my constant guard against, but I’m the past master of fucking up. And I very well may do that here. Meh, I could go on all night and on into the morrow. But fuck that. This is enough, though I suppose I should also throw in something about general ignorance of the topic. But that will be so self-evident I guess I don’t really need to mention it.

This essay should not be written. I should not be the one writing it, if for some reason it should be written. And, if this essay should be written and I should be the one writing it, well, all I’m going to do is use my time poorly.

Enough said.