Motivation my ass

These thoughts come to me every few months, notably when the Prison Work Camp shits on my last nerve, and I realize there’s more to life than working for the man to pay the man.

I head into the thinking room (stall No. 1 in the Prison Work Camp crapper) and ponder life. I’m sure Nietchze did his best thinking in the can as well.

And on those days when I realize I am meant for bigger and better things than reading the editorial ramblings of dementia-eroded seniors, I screw up the shreds of motivation within my five-foot-five frame and tell myself I have to get working.

But telling and doing are two different things.

I can talk to myself until I’m blue in the balls, but until my ass hits the office chair and I click off the newest midget porn video writing only gets done in theory. Professors and teachers said we had to work to get results. That’s for humps, I told myself. And then I’d find myself punching keys at 3 a.m. the night before deadline, hoping to pass off a half-ass clean copy and pray for a B.

From grade school to this very day I could find a distraction. My head would say write, my ass, however, would say one more cartoon, one more inning, one more comic book, one more game of Strato-matic, one more chapter of this fantasy novel, one more video game, one more Web site, one more online image of a chick blowing a … you get the idea. I’m sure you get the idea, as I’ve only blogged twice over the past two weeks. Hell, I'm most motivated to clean when I know there's writing to be done.

So here I am, today, realizing that with a Freeloader less than 3 months away my goal of being a published author still remains out of reach. At this point, that goal might as well be out of reach like being an all-star second baseman for the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Don’t get me wrong, I know this sounds like I’m a depressed schmuck looking for a) sympathy; b) pity; c) affirmation that it’s OK not write everyday; d) all of the above; but let me assure you I couldn’t be more satisfied with life. I married my best friend who supports me even when I fart on her in bed (on accident – mind you) and turn our groove den (the bedroom) into an olfactory jihad thanks to that third chili dog she warned me against. And we’re bringing a future Dodger/Charger fan into the world, to boot. How can I be disappointed with life?

No, my lack of motivation has nothing to do with depression. It’s about time and not wanting to waste it. We are raised to strive for our dreams, to work for them. But those butt heads who told us that forgot to mention how much hard work really is involved. Oh, they allude to it, but they don’t convince us. They didn’t convince me, until now.

So here’s my promise to myself, and the four or five readers who check out this site, I’m going to write more – try every day in some capacity, Captain Slacker – even if the words rival nothing more than a four-year-olds letter to Santa Claus. That’s an attainable goal, isn’t it?

Whew! Now I’m bushed. It’s time to waste some time.