Delusions of Grandeur

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Ah, solitude! A rare occurrence these days with an unemployed wife, a four-year old son, and a newborn baby at home. Much is on my mind. I’ve been wrestling with the topic of collecting unemployment versus working an actual job. Earning a living wage is a difficult thing for a lazy procrastinator like me to do in this economy.  Especially during the summer. The air-conditioning in my Saturn is broken; it's hot and I'm a sweater. Much better suited for our climate-controlled condo or community pool, I think the mental wrestling match is over; victory, unemployment!

Since this blog's inception, I've been fixated on the idea of writing a book and becoming a published author. How does one go about writing a book anyhow? By writing I suppose. I’ve thought about writing a book, talked about writing a book, and read books on writing a book, but have not yet written a book. I expect googling “How to Get Published,” and “Finding a Writing Agent” without actually having a book written or started for that matter, is putting the cart before the horse. I suppose the best way to go about writing a book is to write. So that’s what I’m doing here.  

This isn’t a journal or a diary. I have one of those already. This is my attempt at writing a book (I think). That’s humorous given that my attempts and efforts produce nothing but pretty leaves on the tree (see The God-Shaped Hole). Hello! A polished-up terd is still a terd! I’m writing because I feel I need to. I have no other agenda. My aim is not to teach, preach, inspire, motivate, enlighten or any other verb that serves to boost my ego. I’m writing simply to satisfy God. Whether I have something to say or not, I’m putting pen to paper in hopes He will make me a channel of His will. I pray somehow, this writing situation, this writing experiment, this writing endeavor, undertaking, burden, and blessing, will produce real fruit in my life; lasting happiness, joy, freedom, and peace; fruit that will satisfy the Lord’s hunger.

“How can God hunger,” you ask? The Bible says that Jesus is fully God and fully man, meaning He went through everything I go through in life, including hunger. I want my life to produce fruit to satiate Him. How will scribbling stream of thought consciousness on white, printer paper accomplish this goal? Only God knows. But He does know and I feel I have to do this for some reason. Maybe it’s for none other than to give my hand a healthy workout. I want so badly to insert a masturbation joke here but my people-pleasing issues will not allow it. I fear that one day, this writing will be published and someone I’ll need something from sometime in the future will judge me and I won’t be able to properly manipulate them to get what it is I think I want.

"Who cares what others think?" you ask. Me, that's who. Why? All I really need to do is please God. He’s given me His Spirit, a Jiminy Cricket if you will, which lets me know when I mess up. But dang, the influences of this world can really leave a mark on a person. They’ve left a mark on me at least. I hear my parents in my head, my mom mostly, criticizing every word I say. I’m 29 years old and still hold myself accountable to the mom of my youth. Not even the person my mom is now; the mom of the days of yore before she knew God on a first name basis. Mom is much less judgmental these days. The mom of yesteryear however, is alive and well between my ears guilting the bajesus out of every word I think, say, or write.

After writing “bajesus,” I realize I may have offended some of the hypothetical, future readers of my non-existent book by taking part of the Lord’s name in vain with a made-up word. My deepest apologies. Please, oh please, don’t be sore with me! Continue to purchase my imaginary books and attend my imaginary speaking engagements and listen to me on my imaginary radio program.

That last sentence was crafted for a hypothetical audience and yet, the fear of being judged for those words is very real. Who the hell am I afraid of offending? This is ridiculous! I'm a fully-grown man with chest hair and a beard but hesitated before writing the word “hell.” Now I'm wondering if I should’ve capitalized it. Hell, the place? That’s capitalized. Hell, the curse word? I think not. Unless it’s the first word in a sentence as was the case of my previous. Hmm, my pretend editor will probably advise me to cut this entire portion of my imaginary manuscript so as not to confuse the general, hypothetical public.

My 90-year-old lady bladder is gently reminding me that I need to pee but I'm rather enjoying myself at the moment. You know what's peculiar? The Bible mentions nothing of Jesus’ bathroom needs. As a man, obviously he had to pee. And poop for that matter. What did Jesus wipe with? I get a little raw from the cushy, two-ply stuff my wife buys. I wonder if Jesus Christ, the creator of all things, the first and the last, the Alpha and the Omega, ever got a case of Monkey Butt? He had to. He and His disciples walked everywhere! I get chaffed walking from the couch to the fridge in the air-conditioning. We’re talking miles and miles a day in the Middle Eastern sun. In a world without Gold Bond powder, I think Jesus’ suffering for our sins began long before the Cross.

Oh boy, I just pissed off some of my future readers with a bit of theoretical sacrilege. I’m losing fake fans by the paragraph here. Well, you can’t please all the people all the time. But why have I persistently tried for my entire life? Well, not my entire life. I suppose I didn’t think much about others for the first two or three years. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a fear-based, people-pleasing, resentful ball of sarcastic, judgmental condescension. I almost wrote “condensation” which made me think of “perspiration,” of which I’m self-conscious.

Will anyone actually sit down and read this ridiculousness? I don’t know and I don’t care and that feels great. But my ego says, “Oh yes, this writing will definitely make you rich, famous, and popular.” If it does, that’s a God thing, baby! I’m just inking up this paper for my own mental health. Why have I neglected the one thing I’m undoubtedly gifted at? I’m a writer, baby! No one can take that from me. Oh crap, I’ve just tempted one of my pretend stalkers to find out where I live and amputate my writing hand. Great, if that wasn’t going to happen, it will now because I’ve written it and obviously, everything I write comes true.

I felt so judged when I wrote that last sentence! All my imaginary readers and critics from the future just screamed, “He says he can tell the future! He thinks he’s God! Blasphemy!” I’ve been labeled a “self-proclaimed prophet with delusions of grandeur, presenting with symptoms consistent with schizophrenia.” It’s all over the front pages of the fake newspaper. US Weekly just trashed me in the pretend, non-existent, May issue. *Disclaimer: Brandon Stephens in no way meant to slander the good name of US Weekly. Seeking monetary compensation for any defamation of character, real or perceived, will result in nil. Brandon lives paycheck to paycheck and is currently on unemployment so please, contact his imaginary legal representation if and only if deemed absolutely necessary. *

Where was I? Oh yes, I’m a writer! I can spell (sort of), and grasp the English language (mostly). I’m funny (at least I think so) and am semi-literate. Nothing short of a horrific, debilitating accident could take away my ability to write, create, reflect, criticize, and express (please God, please don’t give me a horrific, debilitating accident just to paint a picture of irony for my pretend fan base). Nothing short of Alzheimer’s (thank you, Spell Check!) that is, but I drink way too much coffee to catch a case of Alzheimer’s. My apologies to those affected in any way by Alzheimer’s. *Disclaimer: Brandon Stephens is not a doctor and is in no way prescribing coffee as a cure for or preventative measure against the onset of Alzheimer’s. He merely read an article in Reader’s Digest. * Great, now I’ll never be featured in Reader’s Digest. I’d better call my hypothetical lawyer asap.

What a litigious society we live in! I’ve dedicated almost an entire sheet of paper, front and back, to appease the fantasy haters who will try to sue me for what I wrote in my best-selling book that hasn’t been published. Wow. I’m a nut. Or, maybe I do see the future and I’m being proactive. Hello psychosis! Bring on the Thorazine! 


Thanks for reading this Bent Straight post by Brandon Stephens. Check out some other popular posts and be sure to subscribe!

Here Ego Again!

Everyone Has One and They All Stink

Three Birds on a Fence 

Enjoy poetry? Check out these popular Bent Straight poems by Brandon Stephens:

The Treadmill Continues

Self-Created Prison

The God-Shaped Hole

Thanks for reading! Be sure to like us on Facebook!
  

Here I sit at the dining room table at 2:30am, completely sober. Why am I up at this ungodly hour without the aid of a drink or drug, you ask? Lately, I've been doing some thinking. Honest introspection and personal revelation have yielded some rather nasty truths that seem to be affecting my slumber.

For the better part of 29 years, I have lived a life of total self-centeredness. Existence has become a prison of self-seeking behaviors, self-centered fears, and self-pity.  Somewhere along the line, I became preoccupied with others' perception of me. Becoming a people-pleaser and a master manipulator, I always wore many masks and turned into a chameleon, learning to mimic others in order to gain acceptance. In the process, I completely lost my identity. Obsessed with sprucing up the exterior, life became all about impressing others.

In the Bible, there's a story where Jesus is walking and starts to get hungry. He comes across a fig tree and, seeing leaves, expects the tree to also bear fruit. Apparently, a fig tree should bear fruit before the leaves. If the tree has leaves but no fruit, it's considered barren. This particular fig tree, despite it's abundance of leafy, green foliage, had no fruit to offer Jesus. It looked good on the outside but was all show. After reading this parable I noticed a parallel between myself and the fig tree. My efforts to impress others and gain acceptance in order to feel good about myself had turned me into a leafy yet fruitless tree!

With this epiphany fresh in my mind, I prayed for God to produce fruit in my life that would satisfy Him; real fruit that sustains and satiates, not the vain, ego-driven leaves that have been my trademark thus far. Oh sure, I look great on paper; two Bachelor’s degrees from an accredited college, awards, a wonderful family, two running cars, and a home in the beautiful town of Historic Smithville, NJ where "towne" is spelled with an "e". Sure, I’m currently unemployed, but it’s 2012. Who isn’t? On paper, I look like a model American. But deep down, in the pit of my gut, I’m empty.

To the onlooker I have it all, but between you and me, there’s something missing. Internally, there’s a hole in my heart that refuses to be filled with the junk of the world. Drugs and alcohol won’t suffice. Masturbation fails. Actual sex with other human beings is nice for a bit but tolerance for that rises quickly as well. My life has become a giant game of Whack-a-Mole (no pun intended with the aforementioned masturbation reference), attempting to pound the "obsession of the day" into a space where it refuses to fit.

I’m exhausted. And not because it’s 2:45am and I’m sitting at the dining room table attempting to “find my true calling and unlock creativity” by taking the suggestion of world-renowned author and self-help guru, Dr. Wayne Dyer, by getting up in the middle of the night to write (I really only had to pee. If I didn’t have the bladder of a 90 yr old lady, I wouldn’t be writing this now). No, I’m exhausted because it’s hard work chasing the wind. 

Don't get me wrong, I have lots to offer the gods of society. I bow down and worship the 7 Minute Abs DVD and pay tithes to the expensive gym in hopes that when I’m someday at four percent body fat and can grate cheese on my eight-pack abs, I’ll actually like what I see in the mirror. My smoking-hot wife and I are good little capitalists. We have produced two, adorable, children awash in consumerism who watch the commercials and eat the cereal and buy the crap that’s peddled every waking hour of the day. From the world's perspective, I have it all in the here and now; the clothes, cars, and the condo. But when Jesus walks by my tree and wants something to eat, what am I growing for eternity?

Sure, I’ve taught Sunday School and even facilitated a men's book study at church on the topic of sexual sin (only to go home, look at porn on the internet and masturbate some more). I’ve helped the proverbial old lady across the street my entire life. My tree is filled with leaves symbolizing outward success. But when Jesus is hungry and he comes to me looking for fruit of the Spirit, does He find any? No. He finds restlessness, irritability, and discontentment. Where’s the joy, happiness, peace, and all those other fruits of the Spirit that I can’t remember because I don’t read my Bible enough.

So here I sit, writing at 3 o'clock in the morning for the sole purpose of growing fruit. When Jesus looks at my life, I want so badly to be able to offer Him something to eat. I’ve tried everything else: sex, drugs, jobs, exercise, food, etc. Living for the praises of others or to please the desires of my flesh can't seem to satisfy the intense longing I feel on an indescribable level. So, desperate and willing to do whatever it takes to grow some legitimate fruit on my tree, I’ve decided to sacrifice a little sleep, use my tiredness as inspiration, and write from a place where honesty dwells.

Now, exactly how does one go about growing fruit anyway? Leaves are no problem; they practically grow themselves. I've always been a writer. Perhaps writing is my fruit-growing medium. Until now, fear and laziness (and drugs…drugs take up SO MUCH of your time when you’re doing them correctly) have kept me from making any serious attempts at writing as a career. Half-finished projects abound; I’m great at starting things. Seeing them through to completion is another story.

For one reason or another, the seed of inspiration has been planted here tonight. Maybe this blog will provide the Miracle Grow necessary to produce fruit of eternal value through my life. Or, perhaps this page will never get read and the blog will wither and die like the parable of the fig tree in the Bible. Regardless, there is a hole in my heart crying out to be filled. This blog chronicles my search for the stuff to fill the God-shaped hole.


Thanks for reading the very first Bent Straight post by Brandon Stephens. Check out some other popular posts and be sure to subscribe!

Here Ego Again! 

Everyone Has One and They All Stink

Three Birds on a Fence 

Enjoy poetry? Check out these popular Bent Straight poems by Brandon Stephens:

The Treadmill Continues

Self-Created Prison