A Mighty Epiphany

It’s hard finally admitting this, but writing isn’t my first passion. I have my passions itemized, and writing didn’t even make the top ten. As a matter of fact, after years of writing, I can comfortably say that I hate it. I hate writing. I fucking hate it. I only started writing because friends said I was good. I’m doomed to a life of banality doing something I loathe, doomed to days upon days filled with enough tedium to pack a library with math books. There will be nothing more than thinking and writing and killing myself slowly, agonizing over my waning creativity.

My real passion has always been history. It felt good to write that. It’s the first thing I’ve written in a year that’s brought me. I want to be on the front lines deciphering the past through marks on a wall or by analyzing the position of a body in a grave.

If it weren’t for my tricking myself into becoming a writer, I’d be in central Mexico proving that the Aztecs were wiped out first by hegemony, then by culture, and then by the conquistadors. Instead I’ll spend the next fifty years of my life waiting to write a book and doling out non sequitur like a quadriplegic shitting his pants in a restaurant: helpless and ashamed.


Just kidding.