A lot of people have been asking me when my next blog post is going up. When I say a lot of people, I really mean all the voices in my head, of which there are quite a few including a condescending bastard who tells me at every turn how crappy a writer I am. I do my best not to listen to that piece of shit, but unfortunately he’s got the loudest voice and at times seems to be the most influential with the other voices; sometimes pulling a few of them to his side. I imagine he goes behind my back, or in this case into the depths of the back of my mind, to meet up with his little alliance to plot out my destruction. Me, I sit here in my consciousness unknowing, wondering when the strike will come. The 4 year old in me is like a little tattle tale and will crawl up and whisper in my ear, “they’re meeting now, the next attack is soon.” Does he work for them, or does he love me enough to stick by my side?
For me, writing is already a fight. I do my best writing at the office, and the battle with outside influences ranges from secretaries calling because the latest picture of their cat is too blurry to stretch on their wall paper and could I come over and do that “tile thingy”; to having to talk to the annoying lady with the voice that could make the deaf rejoice in their misfortune. I get calls from attorneys who still don’t know what “right click” means and who think burning a CD involves flames and a protective mask. I work within an IT group centralized in Chicago with 17 bosses and 2 people who actually have the password to login to all servers, and they still can’t pronounce my name let alone point to San Francisco on a map. They also think I’m lying when I say I take the cable car to work everyday. It could be because I tell them that it actually doesn’t stop and we have to jump off while its still moving and roll if necessary. “Knee and elbow pads,” I say “they are the best investment I’ve made so far.”
Writing at home could be just as bad, if not worse for me. Is it my fault that the residents of Cyrodiil call on me to save their lands from the darkness that has been unleashed upon them by the hidden evil of Oblivion? I can’t help it if while I am fighting this evil I end up taking on a quest to find a hidden treasure in a dungeon with a small army inside protecting their booty from me and my superior fighting skills. In the middle of all this I get a call from Mario asking me to assist in rescuing Princess Peach once again from the evil Bowser and his Goomba minions. “Mario, Goomba is not the preferred nomenclature.” And then of course there was that time my girlfriend walked in while I was naked playing Guitar Hero 3, which I guess does bring a whole new meaning to “Rock out with my cock out.” I know, its all very disgusting to think about. What can I say? I was hot and I wanted to rock.
It sucks when each sentence becomes a struggle between the voices cheering me on and those who have decided to start a their own protest down the avenue separating the two sides of my brain. “Your next blog post sucks, we don’t give a fuck!” chants resonate around my head. I can’t help but think that if they are voices in my head they could’ve at least been more creative with their half-assed chants. Sometimes it helps to close my eyes and let things play out in my mind. My conscious thought throws the first blow by tossing a Molotov cocktail into the front line of protesters, igniting a few of them and scattering the rest. I know it sounds a bit heavy handed, but I’ve been here before, and better me throw the first blow than have my favorite voices get taken out by a sniper camped out in the bell-towered church of my childhood. The thirty or so scattered by the flaming bottle, quickly whip out side arms and start plugging holes into my voices that had let out a large cheer when the first group went up in flames. The faces of encouragement on the sidelines turn to anger while the four year old stands close by not yet ready to reveal which side he is fighting for.
It's like the brutal fight scene in Anchorman, tridents flying through the air, personalities with swords on horseback, flaming arrows being launched from the hidden cover of my past lives, a banshee screams off in the distance, and Iron Maiden songs play simultaneously in all my voices heads. In the chaos I stand surveying the horrific slaughter, as voice after voice is silenced. The four year old remains ever so neutral, frolicking around the battle zone tossing banana peels in the air for the unsuspecting to slip on. He dances to his own tune, innocent to the carnage that surrounds him.
In the distance I see myself looking back at me. It's him. The discouraging voice, the leader of this army of dissenters. It's always him, each time I’m poised to burst out onto the page, he pulls the reigns of my waking thought into the realms of negativity. This doppelganger, this piece of me, now stands eye to eye with my minds eye. The flurry of screaming death stops around us and all join in watching as we stand face to face. Amidst my voices stand Mario, Luigi, Bowser, Samus, Sonic the Hedgehog, Link and Zelda. I stand in a ring within in a stadium full of characters I’ve grown up with. Ash from Evil Dead, Dalton from Road House, and Jack Burton fresh off the pork chop express are the trainers in my corner, while Sho Nuff, Cobra Commander, and that punk ass who stole my bike when I was 10 stand in his. Bobby Flay screams from his ringside seats, “Are you ready for a throw down?” The four year old kicks him in the shin and Yan Can Cook smacks him across the face with his Wok of Fury.
In the middle of the ring we are shoulder to shoulder, moving round and round like the Michael Jackson Beat It video. He’s got that red glow surrounding him burning into me as his arm touches mine. The punches come quickly, it is the assault of someone who is out of their mind. Each blow blocked brings confidence. This bully, this thing inside me that doesn’t want me to succeed, sees that I am not shaken by his flurry of fists. He is not the master, he knows it and so do I. With that thought, I take my turn and double fist him in the chest Neo style. On the ground he spits up negative statements like blood. He’s up and charging at me. I’m done with him, and with that I unleash an “Aruken” on his ass that would make Ken and Ryu proud. The fight is over. The four year old jumps in the ring, and in his best Smokey impersonation yells, “You got knocked the fuck out!”
Back at my computer, my eyes focus, it's time to write. Cheers can still be heard fresh from my victory. The victory is sweet, but the fight will find my doorstep another day. It always does. His voice is still in my ear, alone now, “Your next blog post sucks.” To that I say to him, “Honestly bro, I don’t give a fuck.” And, I really don’t, I just can’t wait to write it.
