For those of you who know me only through this blog, all one of you, it may seem like an unbelievable statement.
It's a habit I've dropped recently that is the cause of this. Writing only when you're depressed or feeling melancholic leads to people thinking you walk around with white makeup and all 28 frowning muscles flexed.
I whistle as I walk. True story.
I whistle so much it annoys my family. My dad once told me that if I whistled at night, ghosts would appear. I love that Asians have all this fantastic folklore to draw on.
I also tend to smile more than should be appropriate. I smile at funerals, at arguments, and when the waiter brings me the wrong order. I smile when someone cuts me off in traffic. I am THAT zen sometimes.
Its moments like those that remind me that all you can do at the end is smile. Though laughing is recommended for true fuck my life moments (pregnancy scares, car accidents, divorces, deaths).
Back to me.
I guess at some point I associated my creative drive with the deep pang of melancholia, and that connection has remained and flourished. Like Pavlov's dog I salivate at the thought of the endorphin high brought on by the joint acts of creation and apathy.
And in the end isn't that the bald man behind the curtain struggling to work the knobs. That we are all constructs of the pain-pleasure centers of the brain. Chemically assisted brainwashed drones. And we provide the chemicals. But if everyone is brainwashed the same way, is anybody?
And on that rhetorical bombshell I end tonights rant.
