I haven't had much to say lately and it scares me. Some, if not most people, believe I always have something to say, but lately, such is not the case. Let me explain:
The older I get, the more trouble I have figuring out who my enemies are. When I was younger, as I am still young, everyone was my enemy. I was confused, unrefined, unlearned. Any threat to my existence, anyone who possessed a power to determine a failure in my life or threaten my way of life was an enemy. Everyone was a threat, an enemy; does that mean insecurity? Probably. But there was always a threat, always a paranoia, always a reason to fight and stay armed.
But as I get older, my enemies become more defined as I become more refined. The scope is narrowed. Those who would once be victims are now innocent bystanders that I greet with a smile and hold the door for. Now my enemies are more general. I am more, yet not fully, defined as who I am as an individual. I readily know what I like or dislike about a person. Hypocrites (we all are, including myself to an extent, but I mean those with a more political power whose consequences of hypocritical actions and decisions affect multiple peoples' lives). Battles are chosen more prudently and sooner or later, you realize you haven't thrown a punch in years. And something about that is frightening.
It's frightening because if you don't stay strong and able to punch, you can't help but remember that you're vulnerable to threats and unrelenting strive of those who mean to cause harm. The older you get, and hopefully the wiser you become, you realize that fights and trouble need no search team. It's like looking for drunks in a bar. And if you're wise, you won't search for fights, but you will always be ready to throw a punch when necessary. God knows too many motherfuckers are out there begging for it.
It scares me when I have nothing to say. It means laziness, unproductiveness, indecision, and any other words that eventually mean action is not being taken. Lately the only things I have had to say are roughly:
.. - - Getting shot down in a plane in a war does not qualify a person to become president of the United States.
.. - If you're 5' 6", 115 pounds, and look like Neil Patrick Harris with a South Park shirt on, you have no business coming into a tattoo shop telling me about your gang initiation this weekend as a precursor to asking me how much your gang's insignia (or whatever you call it; I never pathetic enough to join a gang) would cost as a whole back piece.
.. - - You don't eat your cat because it's a cultural value, not because your cute. It's not my place to tell you not to eat meat, but don't fucking bullshit me. You think cows are cute too, but not when someone changes its name to food and puts it on a plate.
.. - - Every shirt I wear is stained by noon and I never bother changing it…or for that matter, wiping off the fresh soon-to-be-stain.
.. - - I've got the feeling Christ isn't coming back. And if you think he is that isn't the reason to "look busy."
In my disparity to find something to say, something with value beyond the shortness of "water with extra lemon," I scavenge every story I can find, every true life experience, and beg to tell the world without being misleading, even if it means calling a friend to get the words of last month's experience accurately. Certain weeks at the shop arise throughout the year that seem to thrust more stories than you can fit into a casual conversation. This week, it's been the drunk wife of a drunk man asking to see my dick while I tattooed her in the backroom no matter how much I pleaded that "No, I won't show you; let's finish this tattoo." Then it's Mike's fist fight. The first I've seen in years, with a drunk on a bike outside late at night. He pleaded for the guy to leave, but Mike's wise, knowing that once a man has made up his mind to fight, it's hit now or get your ass kicked. Tonight, after acknowledging the weirdness of the week, I correctly predicted a drunk guy faceplanting it outside the bar, and only two hours before it happened!
These stories are great to tell hanging out. I also believe that these stories are great to write about, but it pains me if it's the only thing I'm writing about. Certainly, these stories will tire anyone after a given point. Oh, another crazy acted completely fucking senile at the shop again. What's new?
At the end of the day, if I haven't productively used my hands and mind, I feel wasted and I feel like I ignored the immense amount of possibilities available. Just as I despise the people who say their town is boring and has nothing to offer (which is true to extent considering Port Saint Lucie vs. Richmond, VA), I despise when I have not taken advantage of what I know is there as long as I seek it.
It's easy to stay one step ahead, to take advantage of the lazy people that surround you on the sidewalks, in line at the Chinese restaurants, and convenience stores. They make it easy to succeed. They're practically handing over the win to you by going home every night and forgetting life by boozing it up and watching television only to burn calories the next day discussing it. And that's their only exercise. Well, that and their constantly rain-checked plans to begin a longer than 3 month plan to diet and exercise.
If I go a week without reading or watching the news, without reading informational literature, without reading fictional literature, without informing my mind of what's going on and keeping it ready, I know it's been a wasted week. When I drink every night throughout the week, I know I've wasted a shitload of money and destroyed brain cells and muscle mass. And while a quality, strong, stomach warming whiskey always hits the spot, it's not always the cure. And it pisses me off knowing that so many shitheads are walking around getting all hoity-toity thinking that "Hey, man, we're going to get drunk (probably with some bullshit Bud Light) and let loose. And it sounds cool because all of the beer commercials make it seem like it's your due after a "hard week of work" or studying to get drunk. Because it's the thing to do. Because, Hey, you're such a hard worker, why not get fucking wasted. It's so cool! And it's not just the commercials. Hey, let loose, forget the news and life, lay on the beach and get sun burnt, listen to some Sumblime and mellow out, bros'! Yeah? Not for me. Fuck off.
Throughout the years, my opinions on politics and religion have relatively stayed the same, but have become more refined. I've realized the importance of keeping your body and mind sharp while feeling any minor repercussion of ignoring the desire. And still, the only thing I can be sure of, is that there is a lot of lazy, undetermined, pessimistic, uncreative, passive, complaining, whiney motherfuckers and I want no business in surrounding myself within a thousand miles of them. Whether I die tonight, tomorrow, in ten years, or eighty, it's going to happen and I need to take care of a bunch shit before then and they're not helping. It's T.C.B. without the drugs and toilet.
Nothing to say, but a reason to fight.