"Experience is what you get what you don't get what you wanted." I dunno, my english teachers always told me I had to begin my writing with an engaging quote or something. And that's the only quote that is coming to mind. Why? Because I'm in a slump. I would call it an "Artist's Slump" but I don't even think it deserves the qualifier NOR the capitalization. Some would call it writer's block, but this is the first actual piece of "writing" that I've done. Sure, I've written some "scenes" for a "play" (I transcribed actual conversations that happened to me verbatim), but what young 20-something gay boy in New York City HASN'T "written" "a" "play"?!
Gay. What a way to define myself in my very first actual piece of "writing," considering I abhor the idea of being defined by my sexuality. I sort of beat myself to the punch, there, didn't I? At least I won at something! (That's not meant to be self-deprecating, in fact I have found that I am actually quite upbeat and optimistic... Right, except for when I'm in a non-Artist Slump. A soon-to-be-Artist-Slump? A-gimme-five-years-and-maybe-a-contract-or-two-and-then-I-can-call-myself-an-Artist-Slump? Let's go with that for now. I'll send it to my publisher/editor later and we can hash out the title. Oh wait. Publisher/editor is me. Well fuck. End parenthesis.
What am I hoping to accomplish on this blog? Sanity? Approval? Clarity? Something to pass the time? Maybe E, "all and/or none of the above". I've come to realize that most answers to adult problems are "E," - the elusive answer not even given as a choice on the original scantron, but somehow you were supposed to know that it was the answer. And you should have made that mark heavy and dark. But there's no "E" box. But why didn't you mark "E," Mister Zolfo? Ugh. Growing up is not so tough, 'cept when I've had enough. But there's lots of fun stuff on Caillou.
Hi. My name is Blake. I am scatterbrained, 24, and everything is shiny. What that means for anyone who has never been scatterbrained, 24, and yet somehow finds everything dull and useless, is that I haven't the slightest clue what I want to do with my life. Do I want to be an actor? My agents sure want me to be. Do I want to be a big time producer? My spending habits sure want me to be. Do I want to be a writer? Who knows? Somehow I think my plan is to become an actor/producer who writes for Broadway Cares and gets to work with children in his freetime when he's not too busy being fawned over by his adoring husband and 1.14 kids. Apparently the average 2015 American Household has pi-number-of-members. Me and my husband (yeah, yeah, "my husband and I") make 2, the Antonio Michael makes 1, and Rajah, our beautiful pure-bred Alaskan Husky who doesn't shed because we just lucked out like that, makes for .14. What a family. What a dream. What a dream.
Hi. My name is still Blake. Relationships are hard. You know what's even harder? Not being single for more than 6 months since you were thirteenyears old. And now finally being single and pretending to like it. What's that song? "Live Alone and Like It"? Welp. Upon closer inspection (read: a quick Google search), it turns out "Live Alone and Like It" is a book. Not a song. Not a song, Blake. Not a song.
Hey. Blake here. Being in New York is hard. (When do we get to the part where everything is easy? "We worked our TAILS OFF (read: asses) for THIRTY YEARS BEFORE THINGS WERE EASY!!" - my father).
Yo. Bro-y Blake here. I hope none of my "readers" are expecting my ideas to flow. Or have conclusions. Or make any sort of sense outside of my own mind. But hey, here we are writing a blog. An unintelligible amassing of words that seem to have some things in common. Good luck, dear reader. Singular. (read: Mom)
SO WHERE DO I GO FROM HERE? Pocahontas once asked these troubling words to the sky much like our Blake Zolfo now looks to the peeling asbestos paint covering his basically-dorm-room ceiling. The only thing separating Pocahontas from Blake is a PROBABLY MULTI-MILLION DOLLAR FRANCHISE, complete with a two-movie deal, a video game, and a story-feature in Disney on Ice. Bitch.
I don't really know what I hoped to accomplish in this first bit of writing. I hear myself say that a lot recently. "I'm not sure what I hoped to accomplish in this... business meeting ... outing ... solitary walk..." But I also hear myself finish that sentence with "But I think I accomplished it." So ... um ... I think ... I ... accomplished ... it?
What can you hope to read about in my future posts, Mom? Well, I can't guarantee you clarity (of syntax, of thought, nothing), but I can promise you an honest look into my brain. It's messy. It's confusing. A tad claustrophobic. Playful, silly, young, funny sometimes. But above all, there is never a dull moment.