Illegal Foreign Object

You are reading my 100th post in as many days. It wasn’t anything I set out to accomplish (not in the beginning, at least), but somewhere around my 50th post, I figured it was a nice, round number to chase. So, I finally ran it down, beat it with a stick, and it now lays before you (every bit as battered as its author).

The first 85 to 90 posts went smoothly enough — I write what I know, so as long as the words behave, I can usually vomit out something halfway readable. This last batch, however, man, were they ever a chore.

I mentioned it in the Blind Melon post from a few days ago — I have not been in the best headspace. Problems and stresses are hilariously stupid and complete assholes in their refusal to come at you one by one. I am, of course, telling you nothing you don’t already know. If there is one thing we all have in common, it’s problems. Still, when I get hit in the mouth with five all at once, things like creativity and self-love go right out the fuckin’ window.

I am, at my core, a self-loather. I’ve done the stuff one seeking a measure of healing does: therapy, meditation, mindfulness, healthy diet, breathing exercises, physical exercises, medication, and even a 10-week psilocybin microdosing treatment (this one worked the best, honestly). Every last one of those things has helped to varying degrees, but I still occasionally beat the ever-lovin’ shit out of myself for no reason other than I defaulted to such a thing for literal decades. Luckily, what used to take me weeks to crawl away from usually only takes a day now. This latest downturn, however, was different.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this word salad, for the last 100 days, I have written and released a daily article about an album, a band, a ballplayer, a feeling, or a moment that means something to me. I have done this for several reasons. For one, I was fearful that the words were leaving me — that they were going the way of my memory, deadlift, and curveball. Use it or lose it, right? I know I’m not a great writer, but there’s no sense in losing the phrase-turning I do possess.

Secondly, I default to antisocial behavior. Left to my own devices, I will, in the words of the great Merle Haggard, “live with the shades pulled down.” By nature, I am a solitary person with a distaste for small talk — this is my way of trying to connect with anyone who wants to link up with me. I thoroughly enjoy it when someone reaches out to discuss something I’ve written.

Lastly, I desperately want to believe that people still care about supporting those who hang their balls out there and say, “This is what I love doing — please, support it.” This is where the shit gets tricky because that’s mostly been proven false (and that’s a bummer), but I’ll keep trying to hang on to that particular comet’s tail for a bit longer. With the coming rise of artificial intelligence, perhaps my brother Oliver will be proven correct — the creative weirdos will be the only ones left standing. I hope he’s right — I’m weird as shit. Speaking of Oliver, he’s a brilliant artist and designer. Go check him out here and here.

I guess these posts will continue (just not as frequently). Also, I don’t know if I want to return to the same format. I do know I need a break from it all. If you’ve enjoyed reading even one of the things I’ve written, thank you for taking the time. If you bought a subscription (all one of you) or snagged a t-shirt from my store (all three of you), thank you. If you shared a post or two, thank you. If you didn’t, I wish you had. You definitely shared hundreds of pointless, marginally funny memes. Share my pointless stuff, too!

I know, “I, I, I, me, me, me,” but this is the easiest thing I’ve written in weeks. Maybe I just needed to get some shit off my chest. Who knows, maybe there’s a hundred more of these in me somewhere down the road.

We wait with bated breath.