So, here, I have an idea, right? I'm sure many of the people who visit this board are creative. Many have talked about writing, or drawing, or music. Me, being a naturally inquisitive sort, am curious about such things, so I thought "A thread wouldn't hurt, where people could share and talk about whatever drawings the have, or stuff they wrote." So I made this. Now, I'd like to encourage everyone to share whatever, regardless of medium. Sculpture? Take a picture of it. Film? Youtube and link. Quality's not important, but it's the fact that you're expressing yourself. Which is good. On top of that, you can get criticism, which I encourage and beg for, and many of you, who would be reluctant to share, would be doing it in a safe, polite (or at least, friendly. This place is more a Mead Hall than a church) atmosphere. Bringin' DIY back, oh yeah! Here's one of mine to get the ball rolling. Sorry about the "emoness" of it. I was trying to get across what I'm like at my worst. Hope you like!
So, here I am, laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, with David Bowie whining his way through “Rock and Roll Suicide” over the speakers. Throughout the song, I’m expressionless, motionless, totally dead to the world. He suddenly starts singing some bullshit about how fucking wonderful I am, and my hand suddenly darts across the bed, grabs the remote, and restarts the track. Rinse, wash, repeat. My face doesn’t change the entire time. I spend ten hours doing this.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why I’m bored out of my mind, but can’t bring myself to move. I’m probably some kind of psycho, I think to myself, but I don’t fucking care. I restart the song again. I’m hot as hell, but I just lay there and sweat, rather than get up and turn on the ceiling fan. I restart the song again. Eventually, I fall asleep. I have some dream about D-day, except the captain urging me up the beach isn’t Tom Hanks, or John Wayne, but Kathy fucking Bates with a goddamn hot-pink sledgehammer. Weird. Finally, I’m jarred awake at 7am, too fucking early, by the obnoxious beeping of my alarm clock. Shit, that’s right, I have work, don’t I? I roll out of bed, walk outside, and smoke a cigarette. Then, I go back to bed.
Six hours later, I finally get up for real. The answering machine has five messages from my boss. I chuckle, delete the messages and put on a cup of coffee. Another one bites the dust. That’s twelve jobs in three years, most of which only last a month. I spend the rest of the day on the internet, surfing chatrooms, with absolutely no intention of posting, or much interest in what anyone else has to say. My parents get home, and I tell them I was fired. They go ballistic, I get in the car and go to my friend’s house, where I’ll either spend the month on his couch, or sometimes I’ll just sleep in my car.
A week passes, and I decide that I hate my friends, so I go home. I spend the next three days holed up in my room, bed moved against the door so my parents can’t barge in, with my Mom begging me to come out. Eventually, I do, not because of them, but because by that point I’m fucking hungry. Throughout dinner, I stare at my plate, while Dad goes on about how I’m depressed. I’m not fucking depressed. Depressed people cry all the time, and I haven’t cried in years. Besides, I’m not sad, I’m just fucking numb. Life bores me. I go back to my room and switch on the stereo, and zone out to Nico’s dull moan. I half-smoke a cigarette, before I get bored and hold the cherry against my wrist for about thirty or forty seconds. I watch, dispassionately, as the heat cause the flesh beneath it to brown and blister. I grow bored again, and finish the cig. I leaf through an old copy of Rolling Stone, before dozing off again, secure in the knowledge that everything be the same dull, dreary gray when I wake, and dream of Kathy Bates taking her hot-pink sledgehammer to the skulls of Uruk-Hai at the Battle of Helm’s Deep.