Every two or three days, I reach down and steal a sip of water from the sea I’m sailing. It’s not too salty to drink. Truth, it’s quite refreshing. The taste is distinct and mysterious, simultaneously. Either it tastes like brilliance with a twist of lemon…or insanity and old boot. And that’s fine. I’ll take either over whatever else is out there.
…
I’ve lost motivation. Stop, that’s absurdly false. I can’t even follow it with an open beat for fear you’ll get the wrong idea.
So let’s clarify…
My motivation is in danger of facing change.
I came to this town with a single thing in mind. Doog Hows Hollywood…sans Vinny the dipshit, obviously. If you don’t know what that means, stick around. I shouldn’t have to explain, but I will.
It meant packing Champaign, unpacking Los Angeles and taking Hollywood’s keys at the ripe age of 23. Pass off a script, watch it take off. Direct the next with a destination somewhere in the vicinity of worldwide gravitas.
It’s a dangerous thing, managing an ego this excessive.
In three months, I turn 25. That means 1/8 of my life has passed. 25 years stored in a heart and head that selectively release in the middle of the night. And of all the things I could be worried about at this stage of my life and career, the most troubling is that Doog Hows status expires at 26. Hopefully by now, you’ve come to realize I seldom back statements with anything even in the ballpark of resembling anything even in the realm of being up for consideration of qualifying as a concrete statement.
You prefer quaint? What this R Smith says, goes.
Here’s the problem…
I can’t be good. It doesn’t “work” with the way I was made. I need to be smarter, faster, sharper, deeper, quicker and stop fucking sexier than anyone who even dares mate words on white.
And I need it 10 years sooner. That’s now…
Fuck the walls. Fuck the dues. Pick up stamp Doog Hows and cut your own path.
Do I sound worried? You know better.
…
Oh, come on. You honestly missed it? Get better at life…
Doogie Howser.
