One day, I was on my way to my friend Shannon’s surprise 30th bday party in downtown LA…
…but before I got there, I walked into this cafe to grab a coffee. That’s when I saw this girl with her sketchpad out. She had this sketch of James Dean in front of her–I think–or some handsome dead movie star. So, I went up to her and I said:
“yo, you didn’t draw that did you?”
She didn’t even really look up from all her Tinder matches to answer me.
“yeah i did”
She’s just sittin there not payin attention to her espresso. The cup looked like it might fall and stain her entire masterpiece at any moment. Her box o’pencils were scattered all over this small-ass coffee table. There was charcoal and erasers hangin outa the corners of her art box, like she didn’t give a fuck…
…and there I am all day at my Blick Art Supply art desk trying to keep the windows closed so the wind doesn’t blow my shitty pencil particles outa place… and here she is doin nothin but just dilly dallying on Bumble swipin left and drawin Picasso’s of better lookin dudes than me.
Chick was a fuckin genius.
I woulda asked for her number, but I was movin back to New York at that time and figured that all that woulda done is get me strung out on some hot chick sketch-genius that woulda been three-thousand miles away.
Basically, the point of this opening story is that: in one millisecond… I felt ten million miles behind.
Like shit.
I could NEVER draw that fuckin James Dean pic.
Fuck that girl.
Wait, don’t be a hater, Greg.
But it ALSO reminded me that I’m just a normal blogger dude that writes short stories about my life then draws cartoons to illustrate them. I made no money from that goddam blog, I got ten thousand hate emails per week tellin me what a fuckin moron I was, which I kinda enjoy to be honest, and still I couldn’t stop blogging. I was a BLOGGIN ADDICT.
I’m addicted.
And I do what most normal bloggers do: I try to get famous so that more people will read my blog. Sad to say, wait, is it? I dunno, but it’s truthful.
Basically, here was my cycle of not being famous on social media, and the quest to be a part of that elite group of people with five million YouTube followers…
It started at about 6PM… when I would log into Instagram and go to my sketch hashtags that are neatly placed in my notepad app. I copy and paste all twenty million of them and position them below my mid-to-average sketches that I was SURE would change the world and post it hoping my life would change.
I’d get fifteen likes then question my existence.
Then I’d get temporarily resentful at all the people who follow me that didn’t like my shit, and then wonder if I should delete all my social media accounts to spite the world, only to realize nobody would care if I did that and then I’d draw another sketch and do it all over again.
I’d take it a step further. I gotta work harder, I think to myself; find some ‘meaningful’ hashtag rooms and like and comment on all of them.
I’LL MAKE THIS WORK DAMMIT.
But it never worked.
Maybe I don’t deserve any attention? Yeah, why do I need attention anyway?
Then my grandma would call.
“Gregory?”
“Yeah grandma, wuttup?”
“Ya know, [thick Brooklyn Jewish accent] I had somethin ta tell ya, but I can’t rememba what it is!”
“Well, it’ll come back to you.”
“Ya know, I’ve got this pictcha- do you rememba- well, you were a little kid back then–
At this point I already know where she’s goin… but I patiently let her finish—
“There’s this pictcha of you in my room and you’re in a ski suit in Colorado holdin your arms up as if to tell the world ‘look at me!’ [insert old grandma laugh]”
At that point I’m reminded that I’ve been seekin attention my whole life… Then I’d get sad and plan a trip to Alaska.
The emotion would eventually pass and I’d make myself an ice coffee and get jacked up on caffeine and remind myself that I’m no Gandhi or Princess Diana over here, I’m just some dude in Hollywood writin funny blog posts and drawing cartoons.
Then I remember that everyone is the same–then I listen to Serial Podcast and wonder if I should start a podcast–then I check my Facebook and change my profile in Tinder for the millionth time that hour.
After that I go to Bumble and get excited that some girls wrote me back, but don’t write back to any of them cause I quickly realize I don’t wanna actually hang out with a strange chick that I don’t know so I never write back and then I’d write a blog post about Tinder, realize I need a sketch to go along with it, and the whole process would start all over again.
And THEN there’s those photos on Instagram that end up with NOT EVEN 20 LIKES. You know those? Yeah yeah yeah you know what I mean… The pics that don’t even get the minimal amount of support, like the only people that’re probably liking the shit now is cause they were like:
“Yo, he posted this an hour ago and only has ELEVEN LIKES? Okay okay I’ll like his shit, you know, just so he doesn’t look like a fuckin loser to the world anymore. ”
Anyway while I’m in this circle of Instagram Idiocy I stumble upon those famous chicks with big asses that got famous just cause they have big asses and do nothing other than ‘inspire other girls to get fat asses’… so they post pictures of themselves doin squats at the gym with dumb ass quotes like “Never turn your back on those who give you the strength to love back at what you’ve accomplished”.
Yeah, not ONLY did that quote not make a damn bit of sense but it has NOTHING to do with your squats and WHO is takin that picture anyway? You’re at the gym askin peeps to take pics of your ass? And NO. NOT EVERYONE CAN DO SQUATS AND TURN PRETTY LIKE YOU SO STOP WITH THAT BULLSHIT.
But then I’d save their pic anyway…
Then I get sad then horny and jerk off then go back to work then take another break to post another sketch and I’d be back at square one.
I’m probably not alone on this one…
I HAD to escape.
And I did. More soon…