Chicken Soup for the Cynic's Soul

Hey guys, this is an old Facebook note from around my sophmore year (second year) of college. Hope you enjoy the throwback!

I like to write.

However, I like to threaten to write even more than I like to write.

You see, as much as we hear on the news that math and science testing scores are down, and we need to do as much as we can to prevent this slide, we still reserve a special place in our psyche for writers. If I were to introduce myself as an English major, I’m sure that the cute brunette across from me would have one of two notions:

1) I will live in a cardboard box…but it will be a romantic cardboard box because I will be doing what I love, and nothing is more romantic than self-determination. Not to mention, I will have all the blissful vocabulary in the world to reassure my sweetheart when we have been evicted from that box.

Or…

2) I will live on the Left Bank in Paris, smoking Cuban cigars and traveling to exotic locales such as Madrid, Rome, Rio de Janeiro, and Beijing. All the while, I will shower her with gifts and money. Not to mention, I will have all the blissful vocabulary in the world to reassure my sweetheart when the drug dealers in Rio hijack our car.

Either way, I am perceived as empathetic and expressive, which lends me some sort of value or a type of uniqueness. The common man is more prone to punch out, “Y r u mad @ me” or “Paartyyy at Chriss’s tonite!! Brriing youre money?!?!?!” on a text message than write anything approaching eloquent. So, it at least seems that I have more to offer a girl than most guys. (However, as much as they would like to lead you to believe so, women really don’t care for the liberal-arts-major-type. They much rather go out with an intellectually mediocre man with the F-350 or a Corvette. They, apparently, have more fun or something. But more on that later.) However, more importantly, I perceive myself as to have these qualities, and I then climb aboard a mental train that takes me to some sort of fantasyland. There, visions of literary grandeur float along my mental pages, and I believe that even I could write something that could touch someone or, at the very least, provoke thought.

In short, I feel that I have something to give and that something will be appreciated by others.

Yet there is something inherently wrong with writing. You see, I believe that it took me about 30 to 45 minutes to write all of the above. It takes time and effort to write and, as a college student, I happen to resent both time and effort. For me, it is easier to come up with something beautiful and leave it tucked safely inside my brain than it is to get up and start typing on my computer. Please don’t even talk to me about using a pen and paper. Also, one needs a certain amount of hubris to say words like “one” and “hubris”. I am not always so egotistical.

So, when I threaten to myself that I will write, I experience all the warm and fuzzy emotions of writing without the mess and labor of actual writing. It seems to be the best of both worlds. For example, if I become very perturbed at an article in the newspaper, I simply imagine writing a letter to the editor and envision what I will say. I release all of that pent up anger and yet I still have time to use my brain in a less productive way.

Therefore, barring some unforeseen stroke of inspiration, I don’t write that often. However, just like any good dieter knows, wanting is half the battle.