Welcome to Definitely Not Fresh At 5 With B.
I am already looking forward to my nap. My dog has joined me on the couch in solidarity for the second day in a row. He’s not happy about it. I can tell by the the glare I get every time I glance over at him. Doesn’t he know that this will, in time, improve his life too? We’ll have so much more time for activities and we won’t be stuck in this God-forsaken Province. We will be able to traverse mountains and reclaim the seas like the great explorers once did. It will be fucking magical.
Still building that desire. Trying to keep my head on straight here. Last night was unintentionally late and I am paying the price for one less hour slept. Also, I keep having odd dreams that are all at once stressful and completely benign. They make very little sense but I wake up feeling mentally worn from them. What does this all mean?! Tell me!
“Nothing B. They are just fucking dreams.”
Okay. Just make them stop.
Who am I talking to? I’m fucking delirious. Or maybe just a little insane. More than just a little.
Update! My female has made her way down the stairs and is sleeping on the other couch. This has visibly disturbed my dog. Our bro time has all but been interrupted. But I don’t mind. Both of them can half sleep and half watch me write this retarded journal entry. I’ll pretend they’re cheering for me.
I guess my question is – when does this get easier and will I ever talk about something worth reading? Do all writers ask themselves this? Or just people who think they’re ‘writers’? Is there a difference between the two?
I could go on. I have so many questions. None of which will be answered. But I’m betting most people who ask them do so in private. I’m just here blathering on to the Internet.
Okay. Topic…. Something important to talk about…
Fear of being a father.
As far as I know I haven’t planted a seed, nor am I trying. I’d just rather not pull out because it feels awesome. But I really should. Because I am afraid of the whole damn thing.
Afraid I’ll lose my chance to be free. Afraid I’ll not get to be the best me. Afraid I’ll fuck that little critter up.
I think it’s safe to say I’m not ready and I should be way more careful with my bodily fluids. But I’m just not that disciplined. I’m already taking on this 90-day journey. What more can I give or give up?
Here’s the question I’ve been asking myself – is anyone ever truly ready? Or do you just hear the news and sack up or leave town? How does it all work? Could this be the blistering fire I need to take care of business?
I know for a fact that the fear of not being able to adequately provide trumps my fear of being a father. And at that point, this is all rather moot. So what would I have to do in order to provide?
Sell. Oh, wait. Maybe that scares me more.
Why? Well, because it puts me in the direct line of another human being. It not only gives them the power to reject me but it puts me in a position where I might not be able to fully articulate myself.
I think we all fear rejection on some level. Even the most seasoned sales folk don’t like it – I imagine. But I think the greater fear is not knowing how to clearly and concisely share my value with another human being.
It’s kind of a paradox to me because I am almost always confident in my ability to produce work that punches above my weight but I am almost never confident enough to tell people that. It feels wrong to tell people I’m fucking good. Even when I feel it’s true in my bones.
Maybe it’s my fear of responsibility.
I’m starting to realize I’m afraid of a lot of things. When asked, I typically just tell people I’m afraid of the ocean. Should I give them this list, they might consider me a little pussy.
But responsibility; I don’t like feeling responsible for other people’s shit. I’m coming from a position where earning a dollar is an excruciating affair and I just can’t imagine taking that money from someone and possibly disappointing them. Or even more, to the point, I fear being responsible for the life of the child. Which basically means that I’m responsible for the adult the child becomes.
I don’t think anyone has really figured out how to raise the perfect adult. It’s quite evident when you meet most of them. I’m going to try not to elucidate my point any further or I might get myself banned from the internet by the blue-haired, non-binary trolls.
I’m afraid to raise a child who isn’t my kind of normal. I won’t know how to help them. I’m afraid if they take certain paths, I won’t want to help them. Is that even possible?
I don’t know.
I think maybe kids are like dogs, except way less cute. You just bring that messy, needy thing home and do your best not to lose your mind when it shits on literally everything you love – including itself. And even when that critter frustrates the fuck out of you, you still love them.
I hope they’re like dogs. I love my dog. I bet he will help me raise the kids. Probably their mother too. Goooooo teamwork!
Alright. I’m done. Have a magnificent day.
B