I was out and about in Hemet at an old person social for my Nana’s birthday and one of the younger old guys mentioned that the way I talk, I should write a book. Now don’t get me wrong; writing a book has been my dream since I was in middle school (and there are a whole lot of hilarious failed attempts sitting in a giant three-ring binder on my bookshelf to back that up), but I’ve never been able to string words together in a way that comes to a point. I mean, I can tell a story, but, as you’ve seen a lot in this blog, there’s never an all-encompassing point to any given story that makes the reader feel like they’ve learned something new. I feel like I don’t know enough about the world to make any generalizations about it. Or maybe I just don’t absorb things like the writers I enjoy. Either way, I always feel that my writing is lacking something essential.
Also, on the vein of thought of “You should write a book”, I always feel like I’m kind of boring on my own, but I’ve had several people tell me I should have a reality show. That always made me laugh because the audience that would watch me chuckling to myself in my underwear while making people sexually uncomfortable is not the kind of audience that I’d be catering to comedically. Oh well though, you take what you can get. Right, Boobs? Damn straight!
Now that I’m out of my mom’s murderer’s hovel, though, I feel like I could probably write a set of memoirs to rival Augusten Burroughs’s fucked up life. Maybe then I could make some money off my rantings and my “tragic” past. I got off pretty light, but when I tell the stories, people still look at me like I’m crazy for saying that.
So, in my time-honored tradition, I will think about writing a book while not wrapping up this post into any kind of life changing ideas or really any kind of point.