Dammit

There's a shitload of things to do with your free time. Ranging from collecting post stamps to touching yourself while wearing leather pants (although I guess that those two things are probably more often done by the same person as you'd initially think). You can waste time strolling around the park, reading books, trying out coin tricks or, like most of humankind, get drunk and hunt for booty.

But no, I somehow decided I was going to be creative and dedicate my precious hours of nothingness to the noble art of writing extremely crappy lyrics and playing the same four chords over and over again. Which isn't that bad, I hear you (who?) think. And you know what, you're probably right. It's certainly better than having to wash my leather pants every two days.

The issue here however, is not the hobby itself. Making music and playing guitar are actually quite interesting ways to waste time I might even say.

So what is the problem then Oh all-knowing, powerful blogger? What is it that grinds your gears and makes your passionate blood boil and makes you write this shitty blog instead of working on your thesis as you should be doing since you have a deadline tomorrow you dumbshit? Well, dear reader, allow me to explain.

I kinda suck at making music. I can play some chords you know and if you'd put a gun to my head I would probably able to play you a basic 12-bar blues without fucking up too much but that's about it. It isn't that bad, if I'd put in more hours and effort (or actually tried to learn something instead of just randomly smashing the strings) I would probably improve (slightly). The other, and more significant crappy element in my musical misery is the fact that I like to sing.

Not just in the shower like every sane human being does (right? RIGHT?), but all over the fucking place. Hell, I'm even singing while I'm typing this shit (the words "this" and "shit" are awkwardly similar by the way... ever noticed? Awkwardly is one crazy-ass word as well though, holy crap). And here comes the bang: I can't sing for shit. Or at least it's nowhere near what I'd like to think I am capable of. I mean, seriously, I can't even fucking sing Knockin' on Heaven's Door without sounding like either a semi-deaf crow or like a really bad version of that singer of <insert name of any generic emo pop-punk band>.

And it pisses me off. Making music is somewhat my only hobby (apart from being a superhero saving kittens from trees and attractive young women from burning buildings) and it's the one thing I return to when the shit hits the fan. And trust me, when you think about shit way too much like I do, that same mental shit regularly hits the mental fan. Which is something else than a metal fan. Because those things keep you cool when it's blazing hot in your room. Or they have long hair. Fuck, where was I.

Oh yeah, whining about the fact that I suck and that I am unwilling to accept the fact that not everyone has talent and that some people are just not good at anything.

Hey, fuck it, that's a good topic to write a song about. I really need to get myself a decent microphone...

You strap up your boots...

Since several dozens of notebooks are apparently not enough to contain the never ending stream of bull that pours from both my brain and my pen, it seemed a wise move to create a blog. By doing this, and thus securing my rightful spot on the Interwebs, I have given millions of people all over the globe the possibility to ravenously devour my verbal vomit and to be engulfed by my endless wit. Praise me.

The funny thing about a blog however, is that you actually expect people to read the shit you write. If I were just writing in a notebook that no one would ever care to open (except for the future archaeologist discovering a vast collection of journals and directly being immensely puzzled by the astonishing variety of random stuff one ancient homo sapiens could produce), a monologue such as this one would seem rather out of place. It seems as if I am actually expecting people to read this crap. Hilarious. 

Although I am sure that perhaps not more than one (hi mom) or two (hi dad) lost souls will accidentally stumble upon this electronic wasteland every once in a while, I'm going to use my few square of e-land to try to make a difference in this godforsaken world.

Ok, I'm not. I'm probably just going to ramble about random shit like guitars, movies, books, capitalism and that girl in my class who's goddamn hot and therefore way out of my reach, and in the worst case I'll just be practicing my amazing non-native English skills for my own viewing pleasure. Sounds like a deal to me.

P.S. Mom, what's for dinner tonight?