It's 2014... Welcome to The Art of Not Caring

Greetings good people of the internet.

What you are reading here is a new writing platform through which I intend to broadcast ideas and assorted word things in 2014 and beyond.

BEHOLD... THE ART OF NOT CARING.

Why 'The Art of Not Caring', you ask? I'm not sure. For one, I needed a name for it and that's the one I arrived at. It's not a mission statement. It's not something I feel strongly about. It has no personal significance.

It might have something to do with finding a kind of bliss or satisfaction in not sweating the small things. Or perhaps I'm looking to divert my attention away from the obnoxious hoards of information I'm exposed to from day to day. It certainly has something to do with being acutely aware and actively "in the moment," and projecting a kind of light, unflappable quality. Or at least attempting to. Because that's what I am. Unflappable. Like a wingless bird with nothing to flap. Or a flapless wing with nothing to bird.

Could it be a general state of not-give-a-fuck-ness? Maybe? Who cares? Not me.

I don't know. Maybe the person who's mastered the art of not caring is someone who lets life's uninteresting, mundane, transient, airborne projectile horseshit effortlessly bounce off their spiritual essence in this great big metaphysical dodgeball game. Of life.

Because they don't care.

Maybe I just need a place to house information, like an invisible storage space composed of infinite hallways and drawers and cabinets and trinkets and memories and lost ephemeral brain weirdness mixed in a giant, living, throbbing garbage mountain that boundlessly, perpetually stretches on and on, ad nauseum, and so on and so forth, etc. Infinitely. Eternally. Enduringly. Forever.

Maybe I'm feeling some vulnerable need to self-indulge all the grotesque, definitely-should-not-be-shared but who cares I'm bored and can't concentrate on anything long enough to get anything done anyway so might as well lend some strange observational literary minutiae to this horrifying shitstorm of traffic-y life stuff on the wacky life highway to Fucktown. Before I die. From life. Forever.

Maybe I just wanna watch some movies and say a few things about them.

Maybe I'll get some homeless people hopped up on amphetamines and Four Loko and let you guys know what they have to say.

Maybe I'll go to Burning Man and do psychedelics with some hairy naked people.

Maybe I'll give up dairy and chronicle my findings.

Maybe I'll take the internet by storm with my charm and impossible wit.

Maybe I'll write a movie that no one goes to see.

Maybe I'll write a movie that every one goes to see.

Maybe I'll go to Tokyo and bounce around that magical neon pinbull machine world and make a fine bride out of some lovely, young Japanese lass.

Maybe I'll start a podcast about endangered jungle cats.

Maybe I'll vlog my way to pop cultural infamy by bedazzling my dick with sprinkles and donut fillings every morning for a calendar year.

Maybe this time next year I'll tell you about how I spent new year's eve on my own private jet, hopping back in time from one time zone to the next, toasting the night away... Until there were no more nights to toast away. Because they've all been toasted. Like so much bread in the toaster of life.

Maybe I won't have done any of these things because I'll have spent my days lying pathetically in my unmade bed, in a furious masturbation-fueled stupor, unable to satisfy myself because my over-active imagination simply can't find peace while considering the resultant accounting nightmare spawned from paying each participant for their unique, compensation-correlative sex acts in a 100-person orgy.

Maybe I won't be able to type and I'll give you guys nothing, all because I'll break my thumb giving a violent, angry, tear-soaked handjob on skid row.

Maybe I'll become a horse masseuse.

Maybe I'll become a moose wrangler.

Maybe I'll shoot into outer space in a soaring, spontaneous, intergalactic burst of lifezest. Because I'm nothing if not zesty. For life.

Maybe I'll buy new socks every month because studies show they combat lethargy.

Maybe I'll fund an advocacy program to combat wombat lethargy.

Maybe I'll start a Vine about underwater slam poetry.

Maybe I'll skillfully intertwine the fabrics in the great tapestry of life, and I'll have woven until there's nothing left to weave. And this complicated, interlaced mesh-baby born, or spewed forth, from my birthing mind cavity may inspire millions to lead better lives, the world over.

For life.

Forever.