In my post-college years, I wrote with the confidence and bravado that befit a 22-year-old with six-pack abs and oozing naiveté. Whether I was pontificating for effect, or being truthful about my world view, I said it with my whole chest. About everything — I ranted about everything from careers to Johnny Rockets and politics (I hate Johnny Rockets; it serves a sub-McDonald’s quality burger at triple the price because it’s wrapped in bullshit 50s nostalgia. And you know I’m right.)
Writing with such unrestrained certainty with a hint of brashness felt like Tony Stark putting on his Iron Man suit. I’m a nice guy, and a people-pleaser to a fault, but writing was the one form of public liberation where I could leave my polite inclinations on the shelf. And in hindsight, it felt fucking great.
Even saying fucking right there, that felt fucking great.
But I grew up. Or at least that’s what they call it when you trade-in your raw instincts and unfiltered thoughts for polos and khakis. And of course, there was that little matter of the DNA discovery that defines this website. The words in these pages are also me in my purest form, but they’re pulled from the depths of a well that is now dry. I dealt with perhaps the most traumatic season of my life by writing my way through it, and I succeeded.
But I lost another part of my voice, and a part of me, in the process.
I became a business owner too, and felt like I couldn’t bring all of my fucks with me and still be successful. No one told me to restrain myself, I did that without prompting. And it’s not hyperbole to say I left the purist part of myself behind when I did it.
Years of therapy and promises to start writing again amounted to jack shit, and perhaps this next effort will be no different. But at least for today, that David is back. I’m trying a new form of therapy these days — Acceptance & Commitment Therapy (ACT) — and while I’m not an expert, I know that I need to write in order for the work to mean something.
The great comedian, George Carlin, once said something that burned itself into my brain the first time I heard it:“We think in language. The quality of our thoughts and ideas can only be as good as the quality of our language.”
I have ADD, and there are two times I can be alone with my thoughts and actually organize them in sensible patterns: When I’m on a bike, and you guessed it, when I’m writing. My mind often moves too fast to catch and interrogate my ideas and my thoughts, and so I’d largely given up, content to outsource my brain’s assignments to perpetual movement and avoidance tactics.
I know that if I continue to avoid writing, I will suffer. I’ll be creatively stifled. I’ll exhaust my mind with thoughts I can barely hear, never mind understand. I’ll continue to feel like something is missing.
My ego needs it. I need the gratification of someone loving what I wrote, or hating it, or quoting me. The New Yorker can wait if I can get that back, and I’m the only one who can tell me no.
Okay, now you know why I’m back. Though, if you came for a rant, well, I’m short on time even if I’m already feeling the sensation of purpose as I pound these keys. But I’ll indulge us both with a short and cheap one, and it’s this —
I stopped talking politics with those closest to me a while ago, not because I wanted to stop, but because I couldn’t find a kinder euphemism for a Trump supporter than “you’re a custom blend of dumb fuck.” Alas, even while some votes are still being tallied, it appears that some semblance of common sense has returned to our politics, and while I’m not blind enough to believe improvements are a guarantee, I’m inclined to think we’ve at least stopped the bleeding.
Besides, I want to laugh at those interviews of Trump supporters who can’t name a single policy they’re in favor of, or what exactly Sharia Law means and why they’re so worried someone might make them trans — and now I can.
You know why reverse cowgirl is illegal in Alabama? Because you should never turn your back on family.
Guys, I didn’t say this was going to be high brow content, just that it was going to make me feel good.
And ya know what? I do.