Mr. Ee

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The Write Way

Modern Day Castle has acted as an outlet of creativity for my perpetually surging brain. Every post performs a ritual purging of my soul, and ultimately, drains me for several proceeding days. Now I won't say that I've encountered writer's block, because saying so would climatically conclude irony. How can one write about writer's block? It doesn't make sense. No, it's not writer's block, it's only a lack of something worthy to write about. So, for your reading pleasure, I will write. Write writing.

My ultimate goal in life is to be taken seriously as a writer: for both the screen, and the novel. Now I know this is a tiresome ambition, one that demands countless hours of thought and re-thought, but you know what, so does every other profession. Unfortunately, I cannot give you a chronological list of all the works I've written, or the witty banter I've composed, and if I could, it would be a painfully short list. At this point in my life, only 19 years running, I have yet to really sit down, and take my dream to the next level; to actually achieve it. Like I said, I'm quite youthful, and even so, I'm not worried about it. I'm not taking anything too seriously at this point; I'm taking it all in stride. And ta-da, this is what this website is used for. An extension of the writer I'd like to become: it helps me find a voice.

Not only at UBC, but in Vancouver's entirety, I am surrounded by people who have set out to do the exact same thing as me. I come from a place where culture is prominent, and at the base of that is a very strong literary and film following. I'd be lying if I said that I was ahead of the pact, that I had a better feel for the use of words and ideas than my peers; because I don't. I am beset on all sides by overly zealous author's-to-be, and wannabe film geniuses; people who are half way through their third novel, or their seventh screen play. The only clear attribute that distinguishes me from the vast majority, is that I'm not pretending to be someone who I'm not. I don't have my head stuck up my ass: appreciating my own inner cavity; I'm not stuck in some artsy hipster dream world where my ideas are completely superior to everyone else. My name can't be cast into the thesaurus reference for braggart, nor am I prone to snob appeal.

This being said, there are definitely legitimate young authors around me, ones who do not fall into my negative categorization. People who appreciate the written word for what it is, not for what social group it enters you into. Yet, as I write, I understand that I sound like the very people I am against. All I can tell you is that I'm different. My actions, my open minded philosophy: these are the reasons I am distinct. I do not assort myself by the clothes I buy exclusively at American Apparel, or that vintage store down the street. I am a aspiring bohemian, looking to start the right way. The right way being the destruction of current Hollywood practices. (Is he joking?)

Everyone's an artist now-a-days, everyone owns an expensive camera and everyone enjoys taking pictures with high and low exposure. I'll tell you one thing: I don't have an expensive camera.

But FUCK, do I want one.

I Don't Do Shit, I Just Work Here

Growing up: I was always told that a hard days work would be rewarded by not only money, but the fortification of one's character. Back then I merely accepted this, believing most of what my parent's said as truth. Obviously, now older, I understand that a lot of what my mother and father told me was parental propaganda that they themselves created. Yet, as I began my first day of work, at the first job I ever underwent: a long day amongst Safeway's finest cut meats, I began to understand that maybe they were right: that work really did fill you with something. Whether that thing was character, accomplishment, or both, I could definitely feel it. Now I'm not really sure what character building feels like, but as I worked longer and longer at Safeway, I began to finally understand: It feels like shit. Mopping up the blood in the back room, picking away at the chunks of raw meat, and sorting the sharp pieces of bone, I could only feel a growing anger that was becoming harder and harder to control. That original moment of fulfillment had vanished; I was no longer a virgin of the work force, but a rape victim. What my parents never told me was that what a "hard days work" filled you with, was nothing more than the long dick of the motherfucker who told you what to do. So much for character building; thanks Mom and Dad.

Since my glory days at Someplace Special, or what should probably be referred to as the "glory hole" of my young life, I have worked a myriad of other jobs...three. Although never as bad as the employment of my local grocery store, I still continue to understand more and more things about the character building my parental oppressors told me about. Working for the man can be a bitch. Being told what to do can be a bitch. Being shouted at and told your a shit head, by a manager who's two years older than you can be a bitch. Overall, work sucks, and your the one that does the sucking. During my four month stint at the movie theatre, practically my dream job, I started to ask myself what my motivation was to come in each day, work three to midnight, get paid $8.50 a fucking hour, and not kill everyone inside a certain theatre where paying customers were watching Eddie Murphy's Imagine That. After much deliberation, I narrowed it down to three reasons:

1. I don't waste bullets on empty heads.
2. Never in my life will I walk into a movie staring Eddie Murphy alongside Yara Shahidi (Fuck that bitch)
3. Fortification of character.

I couldn't help but think back to the very first words my parents ever said to me: "Little baby, I know you couldn't give a fuck right now about the future, and I know your a little busy being born and all, but we would seriously like you to think about the person you're going to become. You need to have a strong moral backing, an ocean of character, and a drop dead smile to get anywhere in this world. A job will help you, it will point you in the right direction."

Then the doctor dropped me; but, oh well. I finally feel as if I'm on the same level as the people that raised me. Well maybe not the same level, but I'm on the fast track to that point. My parents and I can sit around, shoot the breeze, have a laugh. At long last I understand why they're so bitter, and ironically, I relish in that shit.

What I never expected was a job of the opposite properties. All this time I had been breaking my back, stuck in the pits of the shittiest job, building "character." Now, I work as the delivery line for an upscale pizza restaurant, hidden away on the east side of Gastown.

(Before I go any further, I would just like to say that this is not one of those blogs where my employers read it an I get fired for...I don't even know...negligence? I'm looking at you Delta Air Lines)

I'd like to give you a mental image of a day at the job for me:
Firstly, I stroll in around 4:45pm, say my whatsup's: "Whatsup, man. Whatsup, dude. Miss." I sign in, and then head to the back to sit in my small little office connected to the kitchen. There I will sit until 6:30 doing a whole slew of things: nothing, the internet, homework, talk to employees, leave, nothing. You get the image. But then comes the first phone call: Large pizza, check, pasta, check, 30-45 minutes, check. This cycle will continue until works done at 9:45pm. The most phone calls I've gotten in one shift is around 15, the least amount is 2. Normally the calls hover around 7. This job is great, I get payed to do nothing. Sometimes, I even laugh at the hilarity of it. Seriously, I'll come into work, sit in front of the computer, phone in hand, and just do numerous spins in my wheelie chair bursting with hysterical yelps. This job borders on a sick joke. I never expected the possibility of job that lowered me, that made me a worse person for doing it. A job that would leave me so bored, yet, so happy, at simultaneous times.

If the leader of the Union were Jesus, I would definitely be Judas.

I'm seriously going to hell for this shit.

Finally

Well, she's back, she's better, no: we're better. We've worked out our kinks, I don't think she'll ever turn her back on me again. To make sure I got that bitch a hysterectomy...Norton anti-virus, mother fucker.

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