kooler than kerouac, motivation by sum 41, i don’t really know what i’m talking about
June 10, 2011 § 2 Comments
Last night I got ripped and this conversation happened:
Me: Oh man, my ego must have exploded. I just tried reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius and I kept getting pissed because I kept thinking to myself, ‘wow, this guy writes a lot like me, except I write way, way better than him. What the fuck.” *
Boyfriend: Hahaha, from what I’ve read of what you’ve written, you’re really good at it! You should write more!
Me: Yeah, but, I have zero motivation or ambition or ideas.
Boyfriend: When we move across the country, you should write about it along the way!
Me: Yeah, but Kerouac already did that.
Boyfriend: Call it “Kooler than Kerouac”
Whenever I have a brilliant psychological breakthrough like this (I will let you know when I figure out exactly what the breakthrough was), I like to write notes about it in my phone. Partly because it makes me feel incredibly self-important and successful (I’m not) and partly because I genuinely forget about 97.2% of the ideas I have. I mean, a case study has never been done, but I am pretty sure it is somewhere around there. Have a peek into my brilliance:
“Motivation — Sum 41”
“Being a failure before you even try”
“What the fuck are you talking about ever, you are twenty”
“something about brain swelling” (I already forget what I meant by this. CLEARER NOTES, BRIANNA.)
Being naturally talented at writing is such a unique sort of suffering, for people who don’t have any actually serious real life problems anyway. Every idea I have just tends to frustrate and bore me halfway through having it and then I usually end up getting a snack or searching the internet for hours about “Where Sum 41 is now” or watching The Nanny instead. It is a pretty brilliant metaphor for my life so far. I’m twenty years old and I should be working to the grind, because that’s what those older and wiser tell me what to do, but I don’t know, I would just rather take a nap.
When I get these urges to write something worthy of recognition, I kind of stare listlessly at my screen, cheer “You can do it, you can do it, you can do it, how many times did you eat McDonald’s today” and then I realize that there is just nothing inspirational or unique or groundbreaking to say, ever. Fuck, Dave Eggers already totally stole my tangent style writing and I don’t know how many more books need to be published about socially awkward middle class white girls who stain all their t-shirts and say “um” a lot. Is self-deprecation charming, still??
It’s completely ludicrous and hilarious to feel like a failure at anything, let alone to feel like a failure at twenty. But that is the culture we live in, maaaaaaaaaaaaan. Cue a high rant about my disdain for society. But in all seriousness, life is one big running joke with itself that humans will ignore their OBVIOUS tools for success and comfortable living, while simultaneously taking all of the shit that just doesn’t matter way too seriously. I kind of just want to make it my goal to ignore that, inflate my ego some more, and write and create exactly what I feel even if it’s ridiculous or trivial or not good enough or I’m poor for the rest of my life, what the fuck ever. Everyone may always be better than me, and life will probably always shit on me and make me uncomfortable, but if I let any of that kick my ass, well, that won’t be any fun either. I don’t know. I don’t really know if I ever know what I’m talking about, does anyone want to go to a Sum 41 concert with me?
*It should be noted that I made this conclusion exactly two pages into the novel. I have no idea how brilliant of a novelist Dave Eggers actually is, and this is in no way a reflection of him as a person. I’m sure you’re very nice, Dave.