Without A Time-Machine

It’s too late. I cannot go back in time. I cannot alter the past.

Many times I say shit that I regret saying. I want to take it back, so bad. Too late. It’s a done deal. Stick a fork in it.

If there is a catalyst to my life as a writer, it’s not any one of these posts.

The catalyst was me being blacklisted by writers and readers alike in the horror community on social media. That might damn well be the catalyst that changed the game entirely, in my world. Flipped the world upside down. I’m falling up, and soaring down.

All I can do is write. Write, write, write, write write write write write. Then write some more. Read and read and read and read and read. Then I continue to read.

Meat and potatoes are all I have. There are no other options. Read and write. That’s all I can do.

I can also stay the fuck off social media, Twitter in particular. Perhaps social media isn’t a viable place for me to create relationships with other people. I can’t change that. Every time its the same old song and dance. I’ve had enough of that song and dance, Jesus fuck. No more. No more for me. I’ve had my fill and every time it tastes like shit. I then vomit all over the common grounds. I fling shit at others, or just start flinging shit where ever, and accidentally hit some unsuspecting bystander. Well, I’m done flinging shit. I’m done vomiting all over the place so you can watch.

This website is my own little world. Y’all took the ball from me, and refuse to pass me the ball. In fact, you all came together and agreed that I, Phillip Webb, was not allowed to have the ball. In fact giving me the ball could jeopardize your value on the court, to the other regulars. You said as much without saying it, but basically you all kicked me off the horror court.

This is my court. It’s me and the ball, and the basket. I will keep shooting the ball at the basket. Going to commit to muscle memory, never stop taking shots. All that matters to me is shooting the ball. The more shots I make, on a regular basis, the better I become. I want to be a better writer. I want to be a better storyteller. I will always strive to improve upon my ability in regards to the craft of writing.

I’m on that craft work life. I wear a shirt that says, “craft work for life”. Craft is engrained on the basketball. Craft work etched above the basket on the backboard.

I love this craft. This craft of storytelling means more than anything else does to me in this entire world.

Yes, my family and few friends do mean a lot to me as well. I value those relationships. But, shit- I can’t hang out with friends and family all day. It might be fun, good times had, still- I’m forgoing my work time.

I have to work hard. I see that’s damn well one of the essential components to how others with success in this industry have done it. There’s no telling if and when I’ll reach a level of status in the public eye. It might never happen the way I thought it would. Which will hurt, but it won’t kill me. My heart won’t explode if it doesn’t happen. I’ll be okay. I’ll still be able to write. I can still do what matters most? Shit, then there’s nothing for me to fuss about.

When I write I’m busy. Busy work is good work.

Again, the community fucked me dead. It seems unproductive, because everyone refuses to give me validation. I can’t control that, I never could. Gangbanged me, and yeah- shame on you fuckers, you all know that’s inherently wrong. But then again, inherently those of you who have no shame also have regard for others. Sure, you act, you put on a show so that it seems you care about others besides yourself. Except it’s a silver lie. Because as soon as you pick and chose who is worthy of your validation, you’re not loving in an unconditional, equal way. You only love those who you feel are worthwhile of your love. And that’s not love at all. That’s, well- it’s a bunch of nonsense. You are unfair, you don’t treat people equally. If you did, you’d give people the opportunity to connect. Without those opportunities, you become bias towards this kind of person, and will do what you can to make the other kind of person feel humiliated and worthless. And you are good with yourself, somehow. You see nothing wrong with this, and even if you know it’s wrong, you can do it without being incarcerated so why ever stop being a cruel person? If you can be cruel and not be punished for your cruelty, there’s no reason you’d stop being cruel towards people you don’t consider worthwhile.

Fuck you. Fuck it, and fuck you.

I’m on my own court where you can’t interface with me. I can’t hear you, I can’t see you- you are nothing on my court. Same as I was to you, on your court.

By the way, my family still interacts with me. I know three guys who love and accept me for who I am. These family members and friends only want to help, they want to see me succeed the way we all know I can. We talk on the daily, and I value each conversation with each person. I’m loved, and appreciated by numerous people. Be it eight people, that’s eight people! That’s fucking epic dude!

Some of you might not have family or friends. Maybe Twitter isn’t any fun for you either. Do whatever, I guess without a family unit your options to connect are limited, therefore Twitter is a place to be from time to time.

I know Twitter isn’t important anymore because I know my family and friends are my tribe. I’ve more than enough family and friends to feel worthwhile and validated. Again, fuck you. I don’t care if you have zero value for me, it doesn’t upset me anymore. I do have value to people I admire and respect.

So to end this, I see I have one reader. Thank you. Is that you, Stephanie? I wouldn’t doubt it. Well, if it is you, I hope these posts are doing something for you in a good way. I think maybe you worry about me, because we have similar mental health stuff. I appreciate that, I know you care in your own way. I also know it’s by free will you chose to read what I write. It’s been a tough go lately, but your choosing to freely read my work makes me feel good. One person is infinitely better than zero persons. Also, I think you get it. You get me, it’s why you stick around after each psychotic breakdown I have. That does mean a lot to me. At this point everyone else has checked out. No one else is coming back to check in. So, Stephanie, thank you. Looks like we got a two person, writer-reader team going on here. Which is amazing. It is really nice to know someone is reading, someone who cares about me.

Okie dokie. I’ve written a lot today so far. That was the mission. Mission accomplished for today.

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