(Meet my friend, Will. Will started a blog, and wants you to read it. He's a fine writer, a sensitive soul, and a complete whackjob. I think you'll like him as much as I do (which is a lot). Here's his bit of shameless self-promotion, with a smidgen of ass kissing, a wee bit of begging, and a dash of guilt. He is standing on my front lawn right now, holding up a boombox that's playing 'In Your Eyes'. For the love of all that is holy, please visit his blog so he will go home.)
So as soon as I get started here, you’ll need to know that I like to “keeps it real.” I also like to use outdated slang in an attempt to not sound like a middle-aged white dude who lives in the suburbs. It’s one more shot at the youth that I lament that never really existed where I’m an artist/writer/musician with raggedy but super-cool clothes, shaggy and unkempt hair that looks perfect (and how do they do that anyways), and a deep and brooding perspective on life that shows in the lines of my forehead. In this scenario, I still smoke cigarettes and I don’t even care that they’re bad for me. I might even go filter-less as long as I’m at it here.
But if I’m really keeping it real, what I would tell you is that I’m married with two kids, and that’s what I do. That and work are all I do. I write this blog called Snackerdoodle as a final nod to what I once thought I might be one day: an artist. And the reason I am here on SFC is that it’s my shameless way to get folks who read my friend Kelly’s blog to come read my blog. You see, she very kindly offered to let me post something on hers that she’s worked on for quite a while now. She has built a fan base by writing and writing and honing her craft. It started with friends reading it like myself, and now she has all kinds of followers from all over. She can really write and she had the guts and moxie to start one in the first place. I admired her when she started it and immediately thought, “Man, I should do that.” Then I didn’t. What I did was wait until she’d done all the footwork, and then I started my own and squirmed my way into a guest spot to steal a few followers. But that’s how I roll, bitches (there’s another one for ya).
So what, really, is it that I’m trying to communicate here? What can I write that may get you to come over to http://snackerdoodle.wordpress.com/ (See how shameless I really am?)? How the fuck should I know? I have no idea what I’m trying to get across here, or over there. All I really know is that I have an insatiable need for people to like me and approve of me and everything I do.
This need has served me in all kinds of ways. It has enabled me to excel at lots of things because I become obsessed with them so that people will think I am “gifted” and “special.” I don’t agree with the gifted part and I may be “special,” but not in the way they mean it. I work and work at things until I get pretty good at them for attention and approval. This need for approval has also worked the other way. Inevitably, you’re not going to meet someone’s expectations and they don’t approve of you. This typically sends me into a tailspin of self-doubt and self-hatred that has taken me to some very dark places in my life.
You may be saying, “Wow, this dude is messed up. He really doesn’t think much of himself talking like that.” Unfortunately, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I think about myself all the time: what I’m going to eat for lunch, where I’m going to eat it, is it the right thing, what if someone from work is going out, where are they going, and why didn’t they invite me (I like food, a lot)? My need for approval is self-centered and self-obsessed, and… Ok, this self-psychoanalysis is getting annoying, even to me.
So here’s the point, come check out my blog. Become one of my “Followers” (God, I love how that sounds). I need you. Can’t you see that by now?
And what if you don’t? Well, that could be bad for me and my family. My kids may catch me sitting on our bed with a plate (note that I said “plate” and not “piece”) of cake in my lap, slugging Coke Zeros and crying. They may ask questions like, “How come all the other daddies shave and wear something other than sweatpants and holey t-shirts?” My wife may find me watching a “Project Runway” marathon and using the phrase “hot mess” repeatedly because I’ve lost all purpose in life, and wonder if she really made the right choice after all. My boss may find me, instead of working on, you know, work, typing over and over again, “Who will ever love me now?” I mean, all these things are already happening on a regular basis, but you get my point. Bottom line is, do you want all that on your conscience? I wouldn’t.