Blogging!!! And Why I hate It!

I hate blogging, I truly do. This is not my first attempt at the medium, though if I keep at this one, perhaps it will be my last. My main issue with blogging is this: I am never happy with what I have to say.

Ever.

Of course at first I am convinced it is a work of utter genius, a gift from the gods themselves. A eureka moment that will live on forever, out lasting humanity itself. The moment that the history books will refer to as the clear starting point of the never ending era of the Malachi.

I will spend a day writing some idea that flashes into my skull, where it fries on my brain pan for approximately 32 minutes, before spitting out onto my keyboard with all the force of a spinning flying back kick to the solar plexus. I will write these things, whirring away with an energy and fervor of purpose that is truly UnMalachi like. I am unsure of how it must look from the outside, for all I know my face maybe stoic on the outside during these episodes. But on the inside I am a grinning mad man, smashing my fists on the keyboard as spittle flies from my gaping maw.  As the manic writing episode continues through the day, I will punctuate the furious typing with equally furious pacing, because creativity is sparked by overly rapid walking back and forth in the kitchen.  After this process is repeated to the point of the pieces completion I will feel complete. I will feel intellectually and creatively fulfilled. Smirking, self satisfied in my wit, intellect, and pure unadulterated genius I go into full on self-congratulatory  mode.

Malachi: I am the most awesome thing to ever touch this motherfucking rock of a planet! BOW DOWN BEFORE ME MERE MORTALS AND WEEP AT MY GLORY!

And then I re-read the piece a few hours later as the endorphins wear off.

Malachi: :(

But there is no denying it, I am not happy with my work of true genius. Namely because it is in fact, not particularly genius. I re-read it, trying desperately to recapture the previous feeling, but it is gone. What had once been clever now seems hackneyed and obvious, what was once an intellectually cutting argument is now a pointless exercise in masturbatory self-absorption. I am crushed, I rearrange the words but nothing can save the piece. I stare at it in disbelief that I ever thought this was good. Then the depression cycle begins, and the only escape is obvious, to delete the monstrosity and to never think about it again.

And likely booze. But I haven't reached that point yet.