STATE OF THE OMEGA: Not Dead, Just Tired.

Blogging is hard. Blogging for three years straight is harder. Doing it all as a broke-ass graduate student grinding out a day’s content while trying to write papers and read motherfucking Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey is limit break material. I’m not complaining, just explaining. So you see around Sunday evening when the chimes rung and it was time to saddle up to the computer, I just couldn’t fucking do it. Tired. Burnt out. Then a calamitous week from Hell struck, malware up our guts and our server down around our ankles.

Sunday night I was pretty sure I was done blogging. Yeah, right.I didn’t even get through the evening before I had to scratch the itch. Dark Knight Rises content from the MTV’s Movie-Based Cultural Abortion? The rash flared up, oozing from its many orifices. Had to scratch. Got to scratch. Scratch it, I did.

Then I sort of disappeared for the week.

I’m not dead, just tired.

I used to write. Creatively, I mean. Wrote a fucking book. I don’t do that much anymore, slaving away over a hot WordPress document or two. Thousand. God knows how many. Hundreds of Buy These Fucking Comic Books!, endless Press Starts! After so many of them, they don’t yield much satisfaction. The enjoyment comes from the discourse the posts provided, but nothing sizzles my sac like the pure enjoyment I used to get out of finishing a Chapter. Creating something from scratch, if you will. This is in opposition to what I’ve turned into here, a giant fulcrum of cool aggregation. Churn, churn, churn. Meanwhile, I quietly malign myself, certain I can no longer write. Not like I used to. Not like I want to.

I need to start writing again. I need to build another world(s). Yet, at the same time I know good goddamn well that I love this joint to give up on it completely. I get too totally tits-twisted over the newest geekery to not employ this place as some sort of valve. I jettison my extra dork jizz all over this internettal space, thereby ensuring that my girlfriend doesn’t return home from work to find me spinning in circles. Nothing seems less appealing than for the girl who is silly enough to love me finding me slathered in fluids, half-clothed, with a protein bar slowly becoming protein bar vomit down the side of my face.

I can’t quit though. And I ain’t gone.

I’m not dead, just tired.

Rendar told me to take a week off on Wednesday, and unless the Earth opens and out falls a copy of the Prequels from an alternate dimension where they make sense and change lives, I’m probably going to be around sparingly until then. Some time to recharge the batteries. Rely on the occasional contributions from my crack squad of supporters in this depraved Injustice League while I get my footing at the summer job and the summer class. After that? I’m not certain.

I need to find some time in my existence for swag more substantial, but I ain’t leaving ya’ll. Specifically the smattering of dedicated douches and douchettes that drop the “your site entertains me at work” or “your site is hilarious” notes that keep me from carving REDRUM into my skull with a twisted-and-smoldering Dagobah Luke figure. Keep coming by, the daily updates will be here. To the passersby? Yeah I’m totally going to miss your lack of discourse and cheap hits if I can’t vomit-up the latest trailer for Hype Movie X. There are a million sites that’ll sate that nonsense.

Come here for the positive vibe; come here for the discourse. I suppose come here for a grown-ass adult adolescent who can only describe excitement through references to Star Wars, ejaculations, and caffeinated metaphors.

I’m not dead, just tired.

I’ll take a few more days off to unwind, rewind, find it in myself to not realize the comforting silence that comes from jacking out of the Thrall of the White Noise Machine we all snuggle up into. In the mean time, check out the site. We have a new host, and way less malware. What does this mean for you, intrepid explorers? You can theoretically browse the site (which is actually up!) at a quicker rate, while getting substantially less infected with my techno-telepathic virus. I can see your thoughts, and they power my sex tendrils.



Image stolen from the incredibly talented Max Capacity.