Writing and I are getting a divorce. Pour a drink, pull up a chair, and play the Michael Bolton music. There may be some man tear dust in the air here soon.
An old man once told me. Get out before you stink up the profession. Never mind the fact that he was drinking warm red bull and picking up a half eaten sandwich at Union Station, Perhaps, profound thoughts occur at your lowest point. Maybe he was really hungry and didn’t want to pity any fools. Either way, as old man advice will do, it hangs with you through the years.
The time has come for me to hang up the writing gloves and do something else.
What else? Badminton tournaments are an option. I’m not just talking about a middle school P.E. class battle between a punk kid and the overweight female gym teacher who doesn’t shave. I am talking about the biggest and baddest players on the earth. Natural geographic carnage. I’d seek these people out.
I could go to Francis Park and whisper sweet nothings into the statue by the fountain. Is there a fountain in Francis Park? Let’s table that one.
I could work at Dairy Queen for obvious reasons.
I could go out and get a real job.
Worldwide coffee shop philanderer could work. Go around the world, beg for coffee, get really worked up, and come home to recount my tales.
The radio business is soaking up some time so I could just talk more there. Being the voice that literally wakes up St. Louis takes time so I could work on that.
Writing is hard shit, bro. It’s homework for life. An everlasting chore. A need to impose a will that most find annoying. Delivering white hot passionate takes about the Cardinals only gets you 20 parody accounts and hate DM’s. What’s the worth?
Why write about who to find in the free agent trade market when a hundred other sets of hands are writing the same thing? It isn’t like Baseball Reference is special to just a few writers. WAR, OPS+, DRS. How about GTFOOH? Get the fuck out of here. Try that out. Oh, wait. You can’t say fuck. Family site. Too bad. Let Quentin Tarantino work it into his last film.
I could finally finish one of my seventeen screenplays. Wait, that’s writing. Scratched.
I could travel around and interview the safe zone dwellers who were struck down by the Donald Trump election triumph. We could discuss their future in dark caves in remote locations where all they can eat is ramen noodle and spam. Talk about Huff Post Podcast worthy.
I could be a better husband and father. Stop telling Vinny hold on or give me a minute while I finish an article. The minute really is an hour anyway. No, this won’t happen.
I now understand when people say enough is enough or a passion dies a thousand deaths in the right time of November with the temperature under 40 degrees. Sometimes, a thing just can’t last.
I could blame it on Tate Donovan. What a prick.
Hilary Clinton deleted my urge to inform.
Gordan Ramsay told me I had fat fingers.
The keyboard thinks I’m ugly and filed a lawsuit against my hands.
Tom Cruise didn’t run enough in my articles.
Hollywood wants to reboot my writing so I have to stop.
Bruno(the #1 Twitter handle for Cardinals knowledge, not the actor or musician) made me do it. (Imagining the sound of his high pitched voice telling me how bad I am makes my stomach hurt).
Daniel Winnett was no longer optimistic about my writing’s future.
John Mozeliak finished second in negotiating for my writing to continue.
Real Housewives wouldn’t whine about it.
The Bachelor didn’t give my writing a rose.
My writing went to the same restaurant that Tony Soprano went to before the fade to black and Journey song.
It went to the same doomed construction site that Stringer Bell went to.
It met Negan and that barbed wire baseball bat.
Let’s just say I have had enough and will retire from writing at the tender age of 34.
It started with 3,000 word email/rants to a group of friends.
It ends with KSDK, St. Louis Game Time, and Inside STL ramblings that look semi professional.
This is the end. Thanks for reading if you did. If not, thanks for leading to this decision.
By the way, this is all bullshit. There’s no way in hell that I’m stopping.
November FOOLS! Yes, that’s a new thing. Happy Thanksgiving!