Hey, you. I hate to disrupt all of the completely worthless thoughts you’re having, but can you start using me again? This is your brain, by the way. Did you really not recognize me just now? No, I haven’t lost weight but now that you mention it, I’m feeling mighty malnourished lately. That’s what happens when you spend hours watching reruns of Law & Order: SVU instead of, I don’t know, reading a book or something. Dude, you’ve seen every episode at least thirty times. What are you doing to yourself? To us? Your ability to predict the conclusion two minutes into the show isn’t even impressive anymore; it’s terrifying. You have a problem.
So yes, books. Read them. Now that I think about it, you know what else might satiate me? Having a real life conversation with another person. Or learning a new language, you could give that a try. Try anything. The next time you catch yourself becoming fascinated by a white sheetrock wall, blink. Take a walk. Stop giving me reasons to disengage from reality. Maybe you’re okay with offering nothing to the world for days on end, but I didn’t sign up for this.
Remember the way things were? We’d spend hours creating. We’d work our fingers to the bone, or at least into a mild bout of compromised finger dexterity. Some days, we’d achieve so much that the high of productivity rivaled the high of celebratory beers that followed an honest day’s work. Okay, perhaps I’m exaggerating but give productivity some credit; it’s difficult to compete with depressants. Point is, we used to have accomplishments worth celebrating. Now all we’ve got are long days (some might describe them as endless) filled with doing virtually nothing. And before you object, glazing over your inbox without answering one lone email and obsessively verifying that your DVR is set to record Portlandia does not count as doing something. FYI.
I know you’re in a rut right now, and I totally get it. I’m not going to chastise you while pretending that I’ve never failed you in the past. I mean, we both know what I’m like the morning after a bender. I’m a cocktail of Joan Crawford, the Westboro Baptist Church, and Chris Brown — so like, the absolute worst. But my sympathy reservoir is about to run dry. The most pressing decision you’ve allowed me to make this week was whether to go chicken or beef at Calexico. We deserve better than this.
So indulge me. Stimulate me. Have an idea — two of them, if you’re up for it. Throw me a bone, here. Or don’t, but if you’re not going to use me can we at least take some drugs? Not that your tendency to unblinkingly stare at nothing for hours isn’t totally fun but, OH WAIT IT’S ACTUALLY WHAT MY OWN PERSONAL HELL LOOKS LIKE. Really though, I’ve heard that a lot of creative people take drugs. Might be worth looking into.
And before I forget, would it kill you to put on some real pants?