I watch movies alone. Often times, I come home from work, which isn’t really work to me, and sit on my computer and gaze at Notepad while my favorite movie plays in the background. I think to myself, “ok, what does Nick Sterling have to say today?”. That’s where 90% of my stories, bulletins, web site posts, and other random fuckery comes from. Depending on my mood or where I am mentally, I craft some letters and make them into words to form random ideas. Those words become thoughts and those thoughts become part of a story. Between those lines is where I feel comfortable being me. Within every word, contradiction, hypocritical statement, or ‘I can’t believe he just said that’ is a meaning. It’s a figment of my personality on display for the world to see. What you see and read is often times only a small portion of what really makes me tick, and behind the mask and image of who you think I am, I am a writer.

I write about what I see, think, and feel. It’s my escape. As a kid, I use to draw to forget that my life pretty much sucked. Now that I’m taller, older, and not quite as smart, I write down what I think and feel to escape the monotony of real world constraints.

Honestly, I don’t really feel to much. The last time I almost died, the doctors told me I have something called ataraxia, which basically means I’m on an even keel with all of my emotions. I still get sad, laugh, cry, FUCK LIKE A GOD DAMN PORNSTAR, and all that. But other unnecessary emotions are stunted, kinda like my ex-girlfriend’s mental development. I don’t feel regret, worry, guilt, or any other preoccupation of the mind. Not because I don’t want to, but because I literally can’t rationalize why a human being could (or would) think that way. The only time I find clarity in my life is within my words. I open up Notepad and begin typing and suddenly I have a ‘Eureka!’ moment where everything feels RIGHT. I see the bigger picture. I feel as if I’m the smartest person on the planet, even amid my many typos and grammatical errors. Somehow, I begin “feeling” my inner essence. And no, that’s not a thinly veiled masturbation reference, but it sure sounds like it.

The reason I have a small following from my words is because I manifest my life into those very words. Some writers report about what they see, others write about what they know. I write about who I am. The duality of Life As Nick could be blamed on being a Gemini, or simply on drinking enough malt liquor to piss a river larger than the Nile and float to Crazy Town, population: me. Either way, it makes for good entertainment for you and it creates an imaginary world where I can be right all the time. I like being right. No, wait. I LOVE being right all the time!

You see, I don’t make mistakes like normal people. Ever since I was a kid my mom taught me how to survive, adapt, and maintain resources in life. She was very good at that. When my dad died, she went back to school. After declaring bankruptcy, she picked up three jobs to make end’s meet. No matter what happened, or how shitty or fucked up, she taught me to let it go and move on using whatever talent, gifts, brain power, or favors owed that I could. Ironically, I employed the same tactics on her. Oh well, her loss.

The mistakes I’ve made in the short time I’ve been on this planet have been evolutionary to my progress as a human being, both emotionally and spiritually. Unlike most of you, I learn lessons very quickly. I adapt. I survive. The life lessons I go through tend to be catastrophic in terms of importance to others, but only a blip on my Life As Nick radar. Inside, they shake the very core of who I am and I begin questioning the moral fiber of my entire existence. Those happen once every other year or so an they come out in a plethora of words and emotions I didn’t even think I had inside of me. However, in the mean time, I drink myself into a happy stupor and enjoy the ‘down time’. Right now, as you’re reading this, I’m on my down time. Yeah, I’m kinda bored but I like being bored. It gives me the time to open up Notepad or grab a pen and paper and let everybody know who the fuck I am and what the fuck I am about… by writing it down.

That’s why I like living within my words: I can say what I really feel and people will either love it or hate it. As a writer, I’ve invoked two of the strongest emotions within my readership: love or hate. I’m pretty cut and dry when it comes to both. I know that has driven some of the girls I’ve dated nuts, but one of them was certifiably nuts and the others, well, they’re doing whatever it is girls do after dating me: either getting married, pregnant, or fat. That’s the result of me using my words to explain their actions. The next girl I date will be forewarned of that impending displeasure, which probably means I’ll be single for quite awhile. Oh well. Honesty is it’s own reward, is it not?

Nonetheless, the one passion I have, that I’m good at, is writing. I live for it. I’d say I would die for it but I doubt I’ve written anything that monumental… yet. The day I do is a day I won’t ever acknowledge. My ego is driven by my personal successes and writing comes so naturally to me, I doubt I could ever bask in the glory of being a ’successful writer’. I’d rather just lock myself into a dimly lit room and gaze at Notepad and let my fingers do the manual work that my brain seemingly does so effortlessly. Now the day I change the oil in my car or figure out a fucking Rubix cube in under 2 minutes is the day I’ll hail myself as KING OF AMERICA, but rest assured that won’t be happening any time soon.

I know I’m not the smartest person in the world by a long shot. But I’m not the dumbest person, either. I’m simply Nick. Whether you categorize me as a writer, blogger, incessant wordy rambler, or ‘three inches of pain’, I’m going to live through my words. Life As Nick. Quite simple if you think about it. People may not like Nick, or the life I’m living, but fuck them. It’s not up to them to decide what happens: It’s up to me! It’s my fucking life and I’m going to live it like I’m fucking it: with pure, unadulterated passion. Unless I’m wasted drunk, of course.

I’m not going to make myself out to be anything I’m not. I work two days a week with HotWheelz, drink myself into an alcoholic coma, have zero romantic prospects (except Natalie Portman. One day she’ll fall for my caustic wit and zany personality), and I’m living dangerously close to the poverty line. And by “poverty line”, I really mean “skid row”. I’m not going to be anything more than what I am, even if I drunkenly proclaim I will be. My talent is not limited nor is my ambition. I’m simply living within my own terms, doing whatever I want to do without regard for consequence(s). I feel that is the only way to live, and honestly, using my words, I think that is the only time I really feel anything. Well, except for being hungover @ work.

So, the next person I meet that takes an interest in seeing me naked, I’m going to ask them, “what is your passion in life?”. Surely it’s not filing useless paperwork, or serving hamburgers to fat people, or whatever it is people do for money. Whenever someone asks me what I do for a living, I tell them I’m a writer. Because honestly, it’s the only time I feel like I’m alive. I don’t ask people, “So, what do you do for dying?”. Well, maybe I do. The point is, my words are special to me and they allow me to be everything I perceive myself to be, even if you don’t like them or agree with it. They are rooted in truth: my TRUTH.

Hell, I even put that in writing. Booyah, muthafuckah!