On Saturday night, just before two business men STOLE MY EVENING* (fuck) and the bikini bar closed, I was lamenting to Psychedelic Kimchi's resident lycanthrope that I'm not feeling it these days/weeks/year. I brought up 2006 and the posts that made me proud to be running this shit, then admitted that, perhaps, I've lost my fastball. Then I corrected that; I'm still throwing heat, but my ambition ain't what it used to be.
Why? Like Jack Horner contemplating Eddie Adams's new name, I've had some thoughts on it, yeah; and I've come to the conclusion that it's a combination of two things. First, like the Miami Heat, I tend to rest on my laurels. Second, 2006 was a fucking tumultuous year, and, as cliched as it is, I really do write better in a chaotic environment. Put me in a nice, happy place in mind and matter and I turn into Complacent Man, a shadow of my former self like cheddar cheese Pringles were once the almighty Cheezums.
There is another factor to consider. I am by most accounts -- and anyone who says different doesn't know me too well -- a raging egoist. As such, I want recognition and praise in equal measure (and, occasionally, vindication). Apart from mind-bogglingly stupid poetry and a few PK booty calls that ended badly, I've never been ashamed of anything I've written for this
site, but, shit, how the fuck would I know whether anyone else likes it? There are more people buried alive in graveyards than those who post comments here; and I've long hated that anytime a post gets comments -- and even that is rare these days -- they're usually from The Funky Four Plus One More**. Shit like that is alienating, surely, and it's partially (mostly?) my fault. But when I don't get any feedback apart from in-jokes, it makes my passion shrivel a little. Fuck that, a lot.
The illustrious and P(k)raiseworthy KMart posited that Psychedelic Kimchi is written in such a way that it defies comments -- that after we say what we say, ain't shit else to say. That makes me feel special, if true, but I'm afraid it's a false sense of security. I feel as though I'm lying to myself if I believe that.
Honestly, what's more likely is that people who aren't regular readers of the site (read: nearly fucking everyone) don't comment not because there's nothing left to say, but rather because What the fuck did I just read? That's wasn't only abstract, it was stupid. Crazy stupid, but not in a good way.
Partly my fault. And while I'd never, ever consider a PK kibosh, perhaps it's time to, at least in my own stylings, consider a Crisis on Infinite Earths-style restructuring. That is also unlikely, because to regain the passion and the fire of two years' past I would also have to quit my job, break up with my [replicant], and watch a fuckrat load of NBA ball.
So, I guess what I'm saying is this:
I'm my own worst critic and my biggest admirer. That sucks zygote liver (a delicacy in China, I hear). Validate me or I'll cry.
Or not. Whatever the case, I am hereby handing over the title of PK Overlord to KMart so that I may find myself yet again. It's going to be a steep journey of self-rediscovery, full of contemplation and shaving cream, but I'll be back after I figure shit out (read: catch up on life, love, and the pursuit of Dracula).
* but after KHot stole my thunder vis a vis flirty waitresses
** Mr. T? Paging Mr. T?