So I did nothing. Hope you get a chance to do nothing too, at some point.
I’ll have more to say about something, I’m sure, tomorrow. But it was a late night, and since my left eye is in the middle of some bastard allergy attack turned infection and I can’t see through it anyway, I gave myself a much needed day off.
I don’t plan on being this lazy for the other 352 days until I’m 40, by the way. I realize, of course, that it’s the height of laziness to write some “meta” thing about how I’m not actually going to write anything. It’s also incredibly disingenuous to boot. I mean, clearly I’m writing something. So I can’t really say that this piece is about me writing nothing. It’s self contradictory and paradoxical, and since I hate being redundant and repeating myself, I’ll just leave it there.
Besides, it’s not like I did absolutely nothing today. I wrote something. In fact, here, fuck it. I wrote this:
But I realized as I came into my office that I hadn’t in fact written anything for this series yet today. And the assignment I gave myself was to write every single day, for this series, until I woke up and one day I was magically 40. That day was not today, so the assignment still stands — Write something. Every. Day.
The thing is though, you can’t squeeze blood from a stone. I can’t force myself to write something I care about. I can, however, write something I don’t care about. Like, for instance, spending most of the day ingesting content instead of creating it. So…that’s what this is. It’s not much. I know. But it fulfills my vow to myself.
So here I am, writing a piece about not writing a piece. Explaining why, in some detail, I don’t want to go into great detail about anything. I’ve already pushed almost 300 words out of my brain with just about zero effort. Hope you don’t feel like it’s a waste of time, because I certainly don’t. Then again, what writer isn’t absolutely in love with his own words?
Good ones, probably. The best ones, most likely. Still, the world isn’t chock full of brilliance. It’s teeming with mediocrity, with the occasional, brief, fleeting moment of brilliance. In most of our lives, we’re lucky if we get a handful of true, genius strokes to our name.
I still got nothing. Absolutely nothing of value to contribute, really. Just a few hundred meaningless, rambling words. Okay, so they’re not entirely meaningless. If you value the stream of consciousness of a middle aged white guy — and I’m pretty sure that in a few states that is absolutely required by law — you might actually find some redeeming qualities in this piece.
Don’t hold your breath looking for them. Don’t count your chickens before they blah blah blah. But if you’re the pie in the sky, Pollyanna motherfucker reading this, maybe you’ll hold on until the bitter end. You’ll think to yourself, “This guy is usually brilliant and full of trenchant, hilarious commentary on life, so if I just keep reading, the pearls of wisdom and true comedic genius will come flying at me like a cosmic jizz shot of goodness.”
Far be it from me to disappoint anyone…but…
I think we’re good.
Until tomorrow, thanks for reading.
Catch up on the rest of the year’s entries HERE.
Writer/comedian James Schlarmann is the founder of The Political Garbage Chute and his work has been featured on The Huffington Post. You can follow James on Facebook, Spotify, and Instagram, but not Twitter because Twitter is a cesspool.