Option C

As I like to think of myself as an aspiring writer of many and numerous talents (the most notable being the ability to consume the amount of liquor necessary to kill a small horse), the past several weeks have prompted me to begin pondering how precisely do I ‘aspire’? Does this involve me campaigning small magazines to print pieces on the local artwork, the perfect placement of a beret on my head as I smoke and scribble in a small black notebook, or would sitting in my pyjamas in front of my computer after rugby practice count? Personally, I prefer option C.

Option C, however, is one of the few points on any young wannabe writer’s list that gets them literally nowhere. The thing, though, is that I do thoroughly enjoy a good challenge. And it was just as I was enjoying complaining about this desire for difficulty, the resulting complexity my life would become over the next forever and whining in the general direction of a theatrically brilliant colleague of mine, that she kindly suggested I start a blog.

I hate blogs. The entitlement they lend to people to tell stories about how terrible cleaning the cat vomit off of their shoes was is ludicrous. I should be the only one entitled to spin that tale. So fine! I decided that I would blog and I would blog well; so well that I would burn an imprint amongst the properly aspiring writers who spend their vacations baking and actually remember their New Year’s. At this point I rolled out of bed, ready to reveal my frogprint-clad ass and the glory that is my literary works to the world, impressed with the brilliance of my plan and the resulting quashing of the emotional blogs 14 year olds write in their spare time.

Now, the only roadblock to my destiny is the conception of a name to properly title my aspirations… and unless I'm about to call it "Blood Spatter on the Rose Petal of My Heart," that is much more fucking difficult than it looks.