blastedgoat

Never Apologize, Never Explain

Hunter S. Thompson was in Las Vegas writing a 250-word story on the Mint 400 motorcycle race, he was working on another, more important story at them time and soon the 250-word sports review turned into a 2,500 word manuscript which would, in time, become the work he is most noted for. While Sports Illustrated “aggressively rejected” the Mint 400 story, his experiment in Gonzo journalism transformed his writing career.

I have come to the conclusion that of all the writers I have ever read, I idolize Thompson above the rest. He was a writer his whole life, and even up to his death, the last thing he wrote was this suicide letter: No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won’t hurt. I dedicate this paper to Hunter S. Thompson, especially if this ends up being the only paper I fail my entire time at college…

Fear and Loathing: The Death of an American Salesman, and the American Legend

In a way, legacy is all we have. If in ten years everyone in this room forgets who I am, do I no longer exist? If I die, does that memory with me in it die too? It’s sad. Really fucking sad. Sometimes it makes me nervous that I might be remembered as that strange girl who works in the library. It makes me feel worse knowing I might not be remembered at all. I’ve learned more from watching the film Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas than I have in entire semesters of certain college courses. It took watching this film at varying levels of consciousness over several months before I was able to watch it completely sober. I found myself becoming obsessed with the way Thompson wrote, the way the words started bleeding together. Thought became dialogue until you couldn’t separate fiction from reality, anymore.

I feel like I can’t continue my education until I know I can make it as a writer. It would just be wasting my time. The lifestyle of a starving artist isn’t appealing to someone like me, who likes to eat every now and again. I will always be an artist but I am down to earth enough to know that I’m going to have to work for what I get. This mentality served me fine for the first few years of college. Then, I realized my writing was “spit up,” writing generated, manufactured with detailed lecture notes.

I am tired of regurgitating paper after paper of more of the same. A few classes challenge and intrigue me. This gets me by until I realize I’m never going to be able to use this in the real world.  If there is, in fact, a real world. I always looked forward to going to college because no one else in my family did. I really, truly believed that I would be free in college. Free to learn what I wanted, finally. When I got there, I realized that’s not why most people go to college now…

Now, people go to college to make money. I thought people went into the job market to make money, and people continued their education to smoke pot and read literature. Today’s rough necked ill-educated class don’t work shit jobs and work their way from the bottom up, now they go to business school. I’m not saying this is the only reason people major in business, I’m just saying, college caters to some parents who send their loser kids to college to “make something of themselves.” The only problem is, this practice drags the rest of us down, clogging the pipes with lackluster gunk.

Higher education has become a business. That sounds enough like the real world to me. Everything is for money. Everything has always been for money, but at least in the past, more people were willing to throw those dollars right back in the government’s face. We all buy into a system of debt and guilt, where we allow our best and brightest to worry over ridiculous costs for education and health care until they finally run into the ground and conform. Conform. Get a job. Pay your loans. You’ve been bad. You like to pay it. You work more so you can get more shit. We get more money. We all get good and fat. Don’t forget about the other things that make your life suck. Like not being able to afford health care, or the fact that everyone told you to “wait til you’re in college” to experiment with drugs and when you finally get there you are surrounded by loud alcoholics.

I possess bitter discontent for how my generation is turning out. Drop out teenage mothers and Meth addicts. For those of you who aren’t from Iowa, or have no idea where Iowa is, Iowa is in the Midwest where two things are very prevalent, corn and Meth. In the early 90’s when I was growing up they ran a lot of anti-drug ads. Many of you will remember the classic “this is your brain on drugs” egg on the frying pan PSA. In the Midwest Meth is a huge issue and anti-Meth ads ran that featured a young woman on Meth, scrubbing her bathroom and clawing at her face. It was eerily scored with this upbeat song, it was really fucking catchy. I still remember some of the lyrics: “Look at me, busy as a bee. Where’d I get all this energy? I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. But I’ve got the cleanest house on the street. Get these hairs all outta my face. Get these bugs all out of my place. Ahh Meth. Ooo Meth.” All I have to say is, that’s kind of fucked up, Iowa. I was about ten, I thought the commercial was funny. I didn’t even know what Meth was. Ooo Meth. The commercial didn’t come close to depicting what Meth could do to a person.

I didn’t know how close to home Meth would hit me as a young woman living in Iowa. I didn’t know my parents and their friends were into the shit. My mother has been an alcoholic and drug addict for much of her life. The worst I ever saw her was when she was using Meth. She is losing her teeth at forty due to Meth. She has scars all over her body where she scratched herself open. Our society is worried about me smoking a little pot when I watched my mother pawn all her shit to score drugs. Old people tell me to “wait til I live in the real world.” I’d like to know what’s out there that I haven’t seen, even if it was only a glimpse. I am the bastard offspring of two drug addicts. I am bipolar and a recovering mutilator. I can’t relate to half the fucking people at this school. I want to scream when I see how little they appreciate where they are when most of my childhood friends are pregnant, addicted to drugs or high school drop outs. That is the sad truth. I’m the only one who got out.

Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong, like I was supposed to be born in a different decade or something. Anytime but now, but I guess that must be how many people think. I don’t want to think like other people. I want to think and write for myself. I guess that’s how I became interested in Gonzo journalism. I simply cannot stand to remain invisible to classmates and professors. I would rather flunk out of college to be remembered as a brilliant writer than graduate by writing bullshit I couldn’t make myself be proud of. I just want to be free, for one short time in my life to write what I want and receive the education I want. I want to experiment with art, literature, and theatre. I want to make films, study astronomy and read everything Gogol ever wrote. I want so bad, but it seems like it’s not going to happen, so I’m taking matters into my own hands. If I have to fail one paper, I will. I have never, in my entire life, just not done a paper. I’ve never had a reason not to. This time, I have a reason for not doing the assignment but it’s not a reason I can tell you. I can’t apologize and I won’t explain, but I will tell you the events that led to my discovery.

It was Thursday night, just before 7:00 p.m. I didn’t check the ticket. 7:00 p.m. stuck clearly in my head. It felt oddly quiet and empty inside the theatre but I walked in anyway, I knew as soon as I had it had been a mistake. I saw people I knew, they welcomed me by asking if I was there to help. Not realizing I was entirely too early before that time I certainly had then. I said no, I am not here to help; I was merely confused about the time of the performance. I felt like an idiot with the printed 7:30 p.m. sneering at me from the ticket I held in my hand. I began to bend the ticket nervously wishing the ink would run and rearrange itself to 7:00 p.m. I wanted the night to be over. A girl I didn’t know felt it necessary to usher me out, as if I could feel no sillier about bursting in before the house opened, I have a theatre background for God sake. I was unsure of what to do next. My first response was to leave, just for a bit. To get a bite and return at a more appropriate time. Fight or flight, crush some skulls to get to my seat or run away. I was assured that my ride was turning around and would be back to pick me up shortly, I decided to wait. It was raining. As it rained I got a brilliant idea. I daydreamed about writing my play review in the style of Hunter S. Thompson. I was sent to cover the play and instead I freak out and leave and write about everything but the play. It’s either the best idea I’ve ever had or the worst. I decide to have fun with it and jot down some notes.

When my ride arrived we decide to grab some fast food so I can make it back to the show. I was very happy, I heard it was a long show and I was very hungry. The plan seemed to work well until we sat down in a McDonald’s at 7:20 p.m. I don’t think you’ll make it in time. We could leave now. You wouldn’t want to walk in late. You’re right. I thought of my embarrassment earlier that evening. I’m supposed to write a review. Don’t worry about it, I’m sure you could make something up. I roll my eyes, I have been bullshitting a long time but surely even I couldn’t bullshit writing a review for a play I didn’t see. I didn’t even try, I believe in being honest as much as it is possible. I would say more, but I believe that makes this thing 2,500 words. Ok more like 1,932 words.