Like all the best writers, Cabot O’Callaghan has a love-hate relationship with his craft.
My writing is usually unbearably raw. Dark. It’s blood on the sidewalk. Too much heavy, man. If you judged me on my writing alone, I wouldn’t be surprised if you thought, “Jesus, what’s wrong with this guy and why hasn’t he eaten a bullet yet?”
But the reality is that I’m much more complex than my words. I’m a funny guy in real life. Honest. I’m not tragically and irrevocably broken. I like to laugh and I try to find humor in most things. It’s how I cope with a world gone insane. I might still be dark and irreverent, but I wax most things comedic.
So, as a devoted disciple of contradiction and ironic acts, I give you some relief. God knows I need it. Maybe it will be the premature ejaculation of your day and you’ll decide to cut it short, knowing it can’t get any better than this moment.
This is the part where the words become very NSFW. It’s likely the words from here on out are not safe for anyone, anywhere.
Cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the eye shouting.
Writing: What? You have to write to be a writer? I’M BETTER THAN WRITING.
My Eyesight: Since birth I’ve had the vision of a majestic eagle. I could count the stars in galaxies light years away and the atoms in my finger. Now my eyesight is for shit. I blame the countless hours I’ve stared at words on a computer screen. My doctor said I’m just old. I cried and ran out of the room.
Justice: E.L. James has murdered my faith in the notion that good writing will rise to the surface on its own accord and be recognized. The success of 50 Shades Of I Can’t Believe It’s So Bad In All The Ways is the undeniable proof atheists have been
praying aching for. There is no white god. Yes, I freely admit my petty jealousy of E.L. James, but that doesn’t mean that she didn’t bathe in the blood of a thousand leprechauns to be where she is. My roiling contempt of the public feeding frenzy of her “work” will be my undoing.
Facebook: Willpower and discipline have nothing to do with resisting the evil seductress. I must know what my friends ate for lunch. OMG, did you see the cute picture of a baby dolphin juggling a kitten and a hedgehog while tiny Desert Rain Frogs sing a squeaky serenade? ALL THE FUCKING CUTENESS. Words can’t compete with the diabolic genius known as Facebook. Resistance is futile.
Twitter: “If you are a writer, you have to be on Twitter.” Bullshit. It’s the social network for rodents suffering from Tourettes. It’s a nightmare carousel of rabbit turd thoughts. I’m lost on it’s usefulness but I’m still on it. Who can stand it? HOW IS IT STILL A THING?
Coffee: “There can never be too much coffee in coffee.” -Zen Proverb. Anything more than one cup and I’m the love-spawn of crack pipe fueled hummingbird-on-squirrel sex. Words cannot manifest when your superpower is detecting shiny things. ALL OF THEM. This is logically followed by:
The Piece Of Fuzz On The Computer Screen: LOOK AT IT. JUST LOOK AT IT. Which is followed by:
My Bladder: Is it a teacup? Thimble? Fuck.
The Muse: It’s an asshole. It will deliver the most brilliant of ideas at the worst time. I think mine is a sadist.
Trolls: Why? I mean, are you even human if your sole ambition in life is to tell me that you don’t like my words? I know the popular remedy is not to “feed” them. What joy can be wrought out of mature decisions like that? Can’t we feed them until their bitter souls burst? Just saying.
Clickbait Titles: At some point someone suggested, “Hey. Let’s start titling articles in a way that has nothing to do with the actual content,” and the Internets screamed YES. Isn’t there enough disappointment in the world? I mean, we already have push-up bras, movie sequels, and a dysfunctional political system. DON’T MISREPRESENT CONTENT. Enough is enough.
My Lover: Have you seen her? She’s gorgeous. And brilliant. Words can’t compete with her. How in the hell am I supposed to write a thing with the epicness that is her frolicking around in my thoughts? Damn her.
Nazi Spell Check: I like to make up words (see: epicness) BUT THE FREAKING COMPUTER WON’T LET ME and my created word cries out for freedom like Mel Gibson underneath the smashing jackboot of electronic oppression. I literally have to type it five times before it gives in and lets me use it. But then if I misspell a legit word by one letter, it gives me the metaphoric finger with the message “No suggestions found.” Orwell was right, I say!
Listicles: Listicles are shit. They are fucking shit. I hate them so much I MADE THIS ARTICLE A LISTICLE. See: Irony, the kind of hate-fueled irony that turns bowels into an iron smelting plant. How much do you want to bet that this article will be my most popular to date just because it has a numbered list? What happened to sharing our experience? Why has the public’s attention and thoughtfulness reduced to powdered milk? Where has the weaving of story gone? DOWN INTO A SUPERMASSIVE BLACK HOLE OF DESPAIR, THAT’S WHERE.
Did I Mention I Don’t Like Listicles? Stop. Just stop.
Here’s One More So The Title Is a Lie.