“Writer” sounds a lot better than “Stay at home loser”, so maybe I will go with that for a while. When my Dad bounced between jobs he used to call himself an “entrepreneur”. I try not to call myself a “blogger” because inevitably my friends and family will ask, “Can I read your blog?”
My answer would probably be, “Uh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You might realize how actually fucked up I am. Or you might discover something mean I said about you, like how I hated looking at four albums of your vacation photos.”
Maybe I am just jealous because I haven’t been on vacation since 2008. Maybe I am scared to go on vacation because every connecting flight to a tropical destination goes through the U.S. Am I just being paranoid? I don’t want the TSA feeling up my privates or putting me in one of those microwave scanners. Will one of my teeny-tiny online marijuana purchases (from the one-hundred percent legal Ontario Cannabis Store) show up in some database that will lead to my incarceration at the border? I don’t want to end up in one of those cages like at the Mexican border. I do not want to be in that situation. I don’t want to be stateside when Ronald McDonald decides to take his clown show to the next level. A scary level like nuking a hurricane (or Greenland).
Please don’t take me the wrong way. I love the U.S.A. I used to travel there a lot. I met a lot of wonderful people there. It is my second-favourite country. I had a lot of good times there. I continue to meet many amazing Americans online. I love you guys.
I’m just afraid to go there right now.
That’s not too surprising. I’m practically afraid to leave my house. So I write a lot.
Actually, I type. Grammarly tells me what synonyms I need so I don’t have to flip through the leather-bound thesaurus my Grandpa gave me in 1987. Grammarly tells me “doncha” and “gimme” aren’t real words. I only had to consent to a monstrous legal document in order to use it. Don’t worry, I didn’t read it.
I’ve often wondered if writing would be more exhilarating on an old typewriter with that satisfying ka-chunk of the arms striking the paper through a ribbon of ink, but I backspace way too much for that.
So am I a writer? I’m definitely eccentric enough. On the other hand, I’m not making any money doing it.
It’s probably good enough to put on a resume. We all know you don’t have to tell the full truth on those things.
Anyways, I’ll catch up with you later. I have a Block Party to get to. Why doncha all join me?