I like to consider myself a writer.

I’ll admit, I’m not a very good writer. I base that contention on writers I read, study, and enjoy. I compare them to my writing. However, those writers have an established following that I do not. They have customized stories to tell and niches to fill. I have none of these. I speak my mind, tell a tale, write against the grain, verbally assault authority, and otherwise rant with a non-establishment persona about anything and everything that pops into my little noggin’.

I’ve enjoyed doing this until recently.

Now I feel as if I have to live up to this persona to create new material. I find myself questioning every word, analyzing every sentence, and scrutinizing every story to see if it meets up to some preconceived standard of my writing style

The thing is, I don’t live up to any standard. That’s what makes me intriguing, does it not? Because I break conventional barriers of thought with my freedom of expression? Or because I’m off the fucking wall? Well, maybe not that far, but still… I’m definitely random and ‘out there’.

Now that I own LifeAsNick.com and all the software/designs are rolling in motion, I can’t write. I feel pressure because my backers believe in me and they paid for all this shit. I haven’t forked out a dime on ANY of my projects. For the first time in my life I’m experiencing a minor league syndrome.

I fault this mostly on my personal life at the moment. I have no idea where the fuck my girlfriend is or what the fuck she is doing, let alone, if I even have a girlfriend. Shit like that influences my writing. I know it shouldn’t, but it does.

My work is a constant struggle of superiority for which I manage very well, but it dwindles my creativity. I’d rather come home and drink a beer alone then shoot out a jizz bomb of laughs for people who barely care if I write or not. Especially, when my day is filled with lying to people about inconsequential things that no one outside my field cares about. I’m like an actor playing a movie no one will ever see.

And I come home after work and do nothing. I spent $150 at the bar with my best friend this past weekend only to escape my reality. I did have a good time, but I had a good time because I was unable to find anything good at the time in me.

Writing use to be fun when I explored the depths of the unknown or the unexpected. Nowadays, my mantra is based on shock value and not the quality and sincerity for which I bring forth towards a story or thought. I could just as well tell you guys how misaligned I am about my girlfriend but would that make for a good story? What if I wrote about how I was a restless transient that escaped my personal responsibilities in Arizona to relocate to Southern California? Or what if I wrote about Smokey The Bear daring me to start forest fires for more publicity? Or what if…

What if. That’s my point.

I blur the lines of blogging. I blur the lines of story telling. And the only fiction I can begin to elaborate on is my love life, so where the fuck do I go as a writer? Sometimes, I feel as if it’s better for me to be alone, sullen, and completely vacuous towards this existence of mine. Only then will I feel no pressure for me to be anything other then who I am.

And right now, who I am is nothing more than a bitter alcoholic who cannot stand humanity, can’t stand his girlfriend’s inability to see a good thing when it’s been so effortlessly offered to her, and hates his consciousness for not allowing his expression of self to shine like it always has without doubt, even in the midst of personal conflict.