Remember who you wanted to be

Tom: So my plan was to write feverishly for the next two weeks. One week is already gone, and I feel I've done nothing.

Satan: Oh?

Tom: Yeah. It feels like I'm working on a thesis again, only this time it's worse because I don't have to finish anything: I don't have deadlines, I don't have to answer to a supervisor or a jury, etc.

Satan: Yeah but from another perspective, you absolutely must write. The stakes here are infinitely greater than for a mere master's thesis. Your self-worth is at stake. After all, what really differentiates you from the vast majority of people you encounter, individuals who seem to be leading lives of quiet desperation? Isn't failure a far better option than passivity? Don't you remember what Bukowski said about his father? That his father had told him that a man buys a house, then passes it on to his son, and then the son does the same, then his son does the same and so on, and that is how wealth (and prestige, self-worth, etc.) is eventually acquired.

Tom: Bukowski said something to the effect of, "Fuck that, I want a hundred houses RIGHT NOW."

Satan: Yes, something like that. You're not writing for riches or literary glory, not primarily at least. You're writing so you can live with yourself. Eating, shitting, sleeping, fucking, etc. are, unfortunately, not enough for you.

(Pause)

Tom: Yesterday I saw a bumper sticker that read, "Remember who you wanted to be."

Satan: Hmm, that must have brought it home a bit.

Tom: It did. I feel that one of the great themes of my life (it sounds so epic when I put it like that) has been to become a man of which my childhood self would have been proud.

Satan: And how's that workin' out for ya, champ?

Tom: Well, I'm writing now, aren't I?

Satan: An SOS file? Whats that?

Tom: Ah. Been sleazing around my yahoo mail again lately, have we?

Satan: Ahem.

Tom: Oh, sorry. I'm supposed to be flattered that you've been skulking about one of my inboxes. How vaginal.

Satan: (Silence)

Tom: Okay. The SOS file is a folder I made into which I plan to place video clips, bits of literature, inspiring JPEGs, etc. I think that might make me happy when I'm feeling particularly depressed.

Satan: Hahahahahaha! And you really think that's going to work! Ahahahahahaha!!!

Tom: Hey fool. I didn't choose this.

Satan: Ooooh, how profound.

Tom: Wow. You are a nasty one.

Satan: Thank you.

Tom: You're welcome. Dick.

Satan: Ass.

Satan: So you were out on a walk, which you undertook in an effort to stave off weight gain, and instead of walking to 30th as you'd intended, which in itself was less than you'd originally planned to do, you stopped short because your boxer shorts were in a twitch, one ear bud didn't work, you had a Katy Perry song stuck in your head, and you suddenly found that you were so hungry you were jittery.

Tom: Yeah, so?

Satan: Then you went to the liquor store and bought beer and booze. Instead of getting food. Or at the very least food and a bit of drink.

Tom: Well? I did what I did. And I tell you this, you horned fuck: After drinking two 7% beers on an empty stomach, I feel... better.

Satan: Yeah but is this how you really planned to start this blog up again? After such a hiatus?

Tom: Dude.

Satan: What?

Tom: You like, missed me, didn't you?

Satan: Shut the fuck up.

Tom: Ha-ha, you little bitch.

Satan: I'm going to align dark forces tomorrow such that you suffer an excruciating paper cut. To the balls.

Tom: God I'm almost interested to see how it happens.

Satan: Keep giggling, assface.