Why would I write a book about me and what goes on in my mind? I’m not famous. I will probably never be famous. Yet I feel compelled, if not forced in some way to collect my thoughts and give an honest effort into finding order, and even meaning in them.
Who knows? Maybe someday someone will read these regurgitated thoughts of mine. It’s really the lumps I’m trying to save. So, to you I bequeath… my vomit lumps. Moving on.
Maybe each of these chapters and subchapters will be named after the inspirational moment, or moments, that heavily contributed to sitting down and writing.
They are usually moments arising from the mundane, everyday soup of activities. Driving, sitting in a class, taking a shit. You know. Those things.
But each time I come back and read what I’ve written I see it a little differently, it’s always a little worse. The words mean so much to me when they first make their way onto the page and they feel like the greatest thing I’ve ever typed. But then I look down on them, as I would last night’s dinner floating in the toilet. I just want to see what it looks like. Then– after a proud moment– I flush. I mean, I hit the “publish” button. Same thing.
So in a sense, I guess this book could be seen as a series of bowel movements in an un-flushed toilet collecting en masse. Ok. Enough with the shit jokes.