In 2012 I challenged myself to write every day for a year. The first month was trying but after that I became proficient. My mind started searching during the day for topics to write later. I’d be riding the subway and an idea would hit and I start typing furiously on my phone. Now I just listen to Howard Stern. At home I write a few Twitter jokes and then to bed.
I’ve noticed over the past few years doing less and less of the things I used to enjoy. I rode my bike to work for years and then abruptly stopped last summer. Getting to the gym is a rare occurrence. I’m not sleeping as much as I should, and I’m wasting more time on television – something I never did before.
Despite playing guitar regularly for over twenty-five years I haven’t been picking it up but once a month.
My girlfriend said not that long ago that, “You have so many opinions and judgements about things. And they’re almost all negative.” She’s not wrong. And to know her, you’d understand she’s not belittling or criticize. I have become cynical, pessimistic, and downright grumpy.
I’m a very nice person and fun to be around, but behind the scenes I just don’t look forward to much. Each weekend social activity is met with a “I don’t wanna do that!” mind-voice an hour before I’m to leave. I always go, of course, but I don’t want to. Many times these are things I used to enjoy with friends.
Not everything has gone to pot. Career-wise things are great, my relationship is strong, and I’m still taking care of my life in most respects. I wouldn’t say I feel happy in general, however.
But there’s one thing guaranteed to make me feel good – writing. So why did I stop?
I don’t suspect it matters, the reason. Knowing why things are screwed up doesn’t usually change things for me. After five years of therapy I have cognitive understanding of my issues. But what am I actually doing to fix stuff? Not much.
Nothing brings me more joy than to read back the next day what I had written the night before. I’m not Joyce, Faulkner, or even Bombeck. Often times my posts aren’t funny, and this is a humor blog.
But I’m proud of the work for one reason. It’s me sitting down and doing something hard. And nothing creates more pride and well-being than that.
If all I ever did the rest of my life was focus on difficult activities that brought me high levels of pleasure then I’ll have lived fulfilled.
I don’t need internet fame, or blog awards, or even comments underneath these posts. I get enough validation on Twitter if I’m craving attention. It’s fun when people dig something I write on the blog, but I have no control over the impact or who’s affected.
All I care about is finding the courage to do what’s tough. Hard stuff is hard, but it’s also the most fulfilling.
I made a commitment to write tonight. I knew I wouldn’t have anything planned or prepared. I knew I would be sitting at a blank screen. I knew it would be scary. It is.
I’m going to stumble a bit creatively until it clicks. That’s the process. I wish I could just start back up at the top of my game, but I’m not at the top of my game. I’m weak. Will have to lift the little weights for now.
I’m going to read this back tomorrow morning as I board the red-line train heading south. I’ll cringe at parts. I’ll like other parts. I’ll get the end and probably read it again.
And then a feeling of warmth will lightly tug at the corners of my mouth. I will smile.
When I asked her to describe the pain (or lack of) she wrote, “It was like someone stabbed me in the back and then spun me around on the blade for six hours.” (Hyperbole much, Nicole?) If anything she’s more apt to make a joke of something that tell you how painful it really feels. She was even the hospital for a full day because it was serious.
When she let me know about her ailment I thought there could be something symbolically that would be respectful but also funny to document on the blog.
I would eat her kidney stone.
This idea is not altogether novel. I had consumed my own skin-tag years before for a laugh. You know, now that I’m thinking about it I’ve never grown another skin tag. Maybe my body learned a lesson that day. Don’t screw with me. I’ll tear you off and devour you for spite.
Well, I do have some moles. The idea of playing around with one of those does not appeal to me. Moles are serious business. I get mine checked out per annum by a dermatologist. I sort of want him one year to say, “Ooh, let’s rip that one off, post haste – it just winked at me!” Not because I want to be cut open and left with a scar, but to see if it would grow back. I have to admit this is interesting to my mind.
So the idea of showing my readers that I love them so much I’m willing to consume their kidney stone seemed hilarious to me. Now, before you throw up realize that this stone was only 3.5mm in length. You could toss it in my water glass and I’d never even notice. I mean, it’s not like I chew my water. So, from a “yuck!” perspective this really doesn’t chart.
I had this grand idea of filming the consumption and putting it up here. In my crazy head this seemed like a perfectly acceptable plan.
This evening I was talking to a friend about this idea. I could hardly type fast enough about how funny it would be to perform this stunt and video it. I was looking for her opinion and validation. Well, she must have been busy halfway through our conversation because she didn’t respond for several minutes.
During that time I got quiet and something bubbled to the surface. I reread what I had written about eating the stone and noticed how absurd it was. It was a publicity stunt and a poor one at that. As far as being “shocking” I’d have to go a lot further to make the national press. Maybe if I inserted the stone into my body the way that it came… You get the idea.
First, I don’t do “stunts.” This blog is about integrity and honesty. That would be a contrived, “Look at how gross and funny I am!” display. Immediately it became clear that I will not be performing this act. It’s dumb and insincere. I have no true desire to eat a kidney stone.
When she finally came back to the chat window I had already written a, “I am so embarrassed. Can’t believe I wrote all of this. Ignore.”
Now, what it took for me to get to this point was to quiet my brain and go to my feelings. Once I did this the answer was obvious and clear. So, why don’t I use this emotional internal compass more often? First, I suspect I don’t trust it. Instead of believe my body to tell me how much to eat and what foods it prefers, I rigorously plan out my meals and portions. The times I have listened internally I instinctively know when to stop eating. It’s an amazing mechanism that I’ve avoided my whole life.
While this is a silly example – my gut telling me not to fill it with someone else’s calcium, it’s a reminder to get quiet and pay attention.
Now, I actually do have a stunt coming up as I do every year around this time, but it’s fun and in total alignment with my values. I’ll be announcing it in the next few days, and I hope you participate.
Oh, and if you’re a pregnant woman do not make plans to eat the placenta. Nobody likes that person.
Well, except your undying affection, validation, and readership. I expect that you check my blog daily, having already added it to your RSS reader (you read it there and by visiting the site). You follow me on Twitter and Facebook and laugh heartily at my every witticism. When I’m a little down (like today) you already know this and send me that personal email telling me how touched your were that I wrote that one post about something.
When I eat too much you stroke my hair as I pass out. At the grocery store you tell me it’s okay to get the big bag of regular Lay’s potato chips even though I haven’t in five years but they’re two for three dollars for shit’s sake. When I drive you ride shotgun staring, not out the window, but at me with eager anticipation of my next sentence, which surely will be hilarious.
This is your role. You do it well. I bow in appreciation.
Now, I need more. Not a lot more. But more.
Here’s the skinny. Actually, maybe this is more fat. Okay, here’s the fat. About a year ago a very nice company sent me a big package of their stuff. They wanted me to give it away in a contest. Well, actually they wanted me to use it and blog about it. But I really didn’t want to do that, so I decided to give it away in a contest. Then I put the package in a drawer at work and never did anything with it.
I have a policy of almost never accepting giveaways from companies. The problem is they want you to blog about their product. I’m not against the idea for other bloggers, but it doesn’t really feel like what would work on the blog. Plus, my self-esteem isn’t high enough to accept swag. Back when I getting a lot of these emails from companies the one idea I did have was to pretend that my dog and cat tried them out and write a review from their perspective. But, ultimately I just decided to not do promotional posts.
It’s still my policy. However…
I have this big thing from that company I need to give away. And I have no problems with contests. I just never held one. So, I reached out to the company and apologized profusely for taking their stuff and not doing anything with it. This is a $150 item.
So, we’re going to do a contest!!!
I’ve got it all worked out and it’s going to be fun. However, I need you to participate. Details are coming soon and I think you’ll dig it. It’s going to be on Facebook because it’s easiest to run there. So, if you haven’t liked my page there, please do so and you will see the contest.
What I need from you is, when it goes live, to please shoot it out to your friends. Not because I care so much what this company thinks or to stroke my ego. But I already have another company lined up to do the next one.
Nothing is more awesome than giveaways and both companies are letting me do whatever I want. They’re just supplying the prize. Ideally, I’d like to do these every month, if possible.
So, I beg of you, when this thing goes live, participate (it will be easy) and tell your friends. That’s it.
Okay, go do something fun like put Saran-Wrap across the bottom part of the toilet. Then wait. All you have to do is wait.
If you live by yourself, this will be an ineffective prank. I hope.
photo credit: OrangeCounty_Girl via photopin cc
]]>Earlier this month I crossed over thirty thousand Twitter followers. I’ve learned quite a bit about Twitter, having followers, and what it all means for me. And even though I shamefully bought my first few thousand friends, I earned every subsequent one fair and square. Twitter has become my main source of blog traffic according to my analytics.
But that’s not the best part of having 30k tweeps.
I’ve carefully watched my follower count rise over the past year and I have now passed the critical point where…
I can get validation on anything I goddamn well type.
We all need validation. Inside of the most confident person is that one loose strand of their identity that, when pulled, causes insecurity to pour forth. For me often it’s my crazy ideas. I want to share them but I’m afraid of being seen as batshit crazy.
Once you hit thirty thousand Twitter followers there will be somebody who is on board with your nuttiness. You’ll tweet something like, “Thinking of wheeling Grandpa into traffic today!” and two people will reply with, “Dude, I totally almost did that with my Grandfather today, too!” And, voila! The thought about killing Gampops is no longer shameful.
Nothing sucks more than being alone. With 30k followers you are never alone.
Tweet about the fart you made during sex last week. Seventeen people will reply with, “Happens to me every Thursday!” Talk about the time you stole something really obscure from Walgreens like a pack of giant chewy Sweet Tarts. Even if nobody else has ever stolen that, a few of your followers will tweet back with, “Those are the BEST – normal size rots!”
For some reason this doesn’t work at 20k or 25k followers. You need 30k. The other nice thing is that most of the time you won’t even recognize the people responding. It will seem like you have new friends each time you get a reply. You’ll find yourself saying, “69JohnnyLips also thinks pastels go best with linen khakis. I’m doing this!”
Now, nothing in life that’s ever worthwhile is easy. Getting to a point where you are validated every time you tweet something isn’t a quick jog around the condo. It’s a marathon of putting in a minimum of an hour a day of building the base of followers. You have to get involved and make it so people feel like they have to follow you. This is a lot of work.
But the payoff is great. Feeling alone on a Sunday morning and eating boiled asparagus and kettle corn will never again seem weird. Someone out there will reply, “OMG – that sounds AMAZING!!!!!!” It’s easy to think of yourself as a weirdo when you don’t have anyone to tell you that you’re great. You need those people.
Take a photo of your cat. No matter what the cat is doing/not doing you will receive at least four, “What a cute kitten. She’s a good girl!”
By the way, since you love hearing about my cat-pee stories, today when I got home I made my way to the restroom to move some earth. I have one of those stand up shower stall things with a drain in the middle. Weird that it’s considered fancy but just has a hole in the floor. Anyway, while I was doing how I do, the cat walks into the shower squats and pees, all while looking at me. I saw it trickle down into the drain. She has now peed in both bath stalls in the past few days. Amazing.
Here’s the other benefit with having thirty thousand followers. I get one-two tweets/direct messages a day telling me how funny I am. These are unsolicited. The best kind of validation. I heard when you get to 50k you get three a day. Nothing better than sitting at work daydreaming of the semi-attractive chick in accounts payable and up pops a, “Your tweets make me smile – and I just wanted to say thanks, mofo!”
So, hop to it. Network like crazy and build that fan base. Stop going to your family and friends for validation. They’re sick of supporting you. Anonymous people online are where it’s at. They’re just waiting to tell you how great you are. But you must find them. Go find them and raise your esteem. It’s worth it.
