I swear to god I almost posted the shittiest piece of writing on this blog, just for the sake of posting it.
I started writing some foaming quim about Kony but realized about halfway through that I actually didn’t give that much of a shit and hadn’t really formed any sort of opinion on the topic.
In the end, it basically boiled down to this: Kony’s a cunt. The guy who made it, got naked and went nuts is a bit of cunt. The people who have gotten behind it are mostly mad or bored, or a mixture of both, and cunts. Zuckerberg is still a cunt.
I’m being cynical for no reason. It was what it was.
But I tried to write something about it without really thinking about what I was going to say. I started off liking it, then I started hating it about halfway through writing, and then I felt guilty for hating on a guy who was only trying to do the right thing.
This sort of thing was coming. Someone was going to lump together all of the things that defined our culture and create some sort of giant digital patronizing monster that just destroys everything. It’s like chemotherapy.
And I tried to put it a little more eloquently than I had above. But I had myself a wee EPIC FAIL.
I read back over what I’d written and realized how bad it was. Then I tried to hash together some kind of excuse. Like it’s lack of coherence or direction was some kind of metaphor for the way I was feeling. I hadn’t made my mind up about Kony and I used the scrambled egg narrative as means of displaying the thought process involved in forming an opinion on it. And then right at the end I came clean with myself and said, “No, this is fucking clown piss. It makes no sense and contributes nothing. Stick to writing stories about the bitch that fucked you over a while back, changing the color of her hair every now and again to keep it fresh.”
If I hadn’t been neglecting this blog so much recently I would never have written it. It’s like your distant father almost forgetting your birthday again. He buys you a card from a petrol station and tapes two quid into the inside because it’s all he had in his pocket at the time. And when he’s writing a sniveling apology he opts against putting any sort of number on the inside because he can’t remember which year he last fucked your mother.
I’m tired and I haven’t written in a week. I’ve only done editing work and filled out paper work for visas. My brain is numb. I needed to write something so I just decided to write about the same thing every one else was writing about. And then I wrote this. I wrote about myself trying to write about what everyone else was writing about and failed, so I opted to start drawing attention my own failure in a bid to salvage something that was at least mildly amusing from the school bus crash that was this evening’s writing session.