I don’t know if it’s an impacted wisdom tooth or a cavity, but I was literally screaming and writhing in pain early this morning.  For all intents and purposes of metaphor, it was like I was being gang-raped by homosexual tooth gnomes.  Gay tooth gnomes: had they been lesbian tooth gnomes, the pain would not have been that terrible (it would have been enjoyable, even).

   I’m not saying that homosexual tooth gnomes exist.  But coupled with a 15-degree Celsius temperature low, you can only imagine the pain of it.  The pain was enough for me to start screaming like a pussy, like I’m being torn a new anus on my molar.  And this was at around 4:00 AM.

   At the verge of tears, I woke up to try brushing the pain out of my teeth, which didn’t work.  Then I took Tramadol - emergency room analgesic - which didn’t work.  I opened a bottle of Vodka Cruiser hanging around at the refrigerator, hoping that the mild alcohol would numb my teeth, or at least calm me enough to get some much-needed sleep.  That didn’t work.

   My mom woke up just in time to help me with my woes: she opened up one of them lidocaine patches and had me plaster it on my cheek.  Then, in a strange twist, she actually gave me gin.

   That, believe it or not, worked.

   From Ronchimata, commenting on “The Manny Pacquiao Scandal:”

Manny can’t be a singer, an actor or a politician. But you know what, no matter what you do, you can’t be a good writer. You contradict your self too much.

   I just wanted to share that comment with you to frame today’s experiment.  The topic is: I’m not a (good) writer. 

*     *     * 

   “Writer,” to me, is an overused term.  To be a “writer,” to me, has always been putting yourself in the same league as a Sinclair Lewis, an Ernest Hemingway, a Franz Kafka.  To be called a “writer” is to have your legacy cemented in the history books.  But to call yourself a “writer” is an act not only of overconfidence, but the height of arrogance.  This is the very reason why I’m extremely hesitant to call myself a “writer,” even if others call me one.

   It has become very important for me to frame myself, to put my own view of myself into the proper perspective.  If I write poems (which I don’t), that doesn’t give me the right to call myself a “poet” and put myself in the same league as Shakespeare.  If I sing (which I rarely do), that doesn’t give me the right to call myself a “singer” and put myself in the same league as Elvis.

   Which is why I’m not a writer: I’m a blogger.

   No writer that I know of has ever had the temerity or the audacity to call himself one in his lifetime.  You can’t be a writer “just because.”  After all, nowadays you can teach a guy some basic functions of Microsoft Word and make a “writer” out of him.  You can tutor a girl on the matter of measure and rhyme and make a “poet” out of her.  I find this to be the general problem of everybody who claims to be a “writer:” defining the situation.

   Many of my friends question why I blog frequently: after all, I’m not getting any money out of it.  Besides, blogging is the most boring thing one can do in a computer shop: it lacks the excitement of computer games, the fun of chatting, and the joy of watching YouTube videos or answering Friendster surveys.  Simple: because I’m a blogger.  I could care less for how many comments I get or how much money I make out of it.  I care more for what I can share to people whether they agree or disagree with it.  That’s my motivation.  That’s all there is: my moment of glory may come tomorrow, next year, or not at all.

   So I can’t be a good writer.  Big whoop: I never claimed to be one anyway.  I know my place.  I know where I am.  I could care less if I’m a good writer or a bad one, a good blogger or a bad one.  I don’t care what history judges me to be at the end of the day.  What’s important is the here-and-now: I’m more than satisfied if people call me a “writer” or a “blogger,” irrespective of the adjective that precedes it.

   And that’s why I’m a blogger.