hope | The Dimwit Diary

Double your pleasure, double your fun. It’s a double post kinda day. Doubly exciting. And to what do we owe this pleasure, you ask? Welp, we reached 3,000 dimwits, and going strong. Most excellent, dear readers. Thanks and double thanks.

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My brother texted me the other day – the brother that I always talk about. He goes by the one syllable name, Joe, but I call him “Broseph.” It’s a play on his full name Joseph and him being my brother incase you didn’t put two and two together. I’m terrible at math myself, so don’t feel so bad if it went over your head.

Broseph reads my blog regularly. He said in the text, “You’re really finding your voice. And it’s fantastic.” Then he went on to say something about hurry the hell up and write my book. To which I replied something like, “Thanks dude! I’m close, oh so very close.” Then I said something lame about how my blog is like a very rough sketchbook, and the book will be my finished painting. It was LAME-O. Lamesville, USA. But it’s kinda the truth, I hope.

When I write on my blog, it’s just me dumping my thoughts onto a screen real quick. I don’t put much time into it. I don’t go back and fix things. I just sit down and write whatever’s on my mind at the time. Let it all gush out. I’m just as surprised as you are to see what comes out of my mouth, believe me. I can’t believe some of the stuff I write. What a dimwit dingaling!!! The Captain of the Dimwits, for sure.

Well, this is a post mainly to say thanks to those who read my madness even though I just thanked you a few posts ago. It really does mean a lot to me. It also meant a lot that my brother told me he’s eagerly anticipating my finished book, because unlike me, he actually does read a lot of books. He knows a good writer when he reads one, and he insists that I have what it takes. He tells me I have something special, so I take his word for it. It’s a very trusted word.

I sure hope Broseph is right. I sure hope I have a doozy in me. I think I do. I’ve begun saving up money to take off time next year to give it a stab. See what happens. And today, I just lined up a cabin to stay for free out in North Carolina. I saw photos, and it looks like the perfect kind of place to write a beautiful painting. I’m going for a masterpiece. One for the ages. Or at the very least, one to stick on top of the toilet for when you’re bored.

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Of course with me, saying thanks is never quite enough, so I went ahead and did up a nice photo to include on the inside jacket of the book. I don’t know. I may play around with it some more. Photoshop a parrot on my shoulder, or maybe an eye patch, or something more Pirate-esque. It needs a little something more, but it’ll have to do for now. I autographed the photo for you and everything. When the real book comes out, the very first book I’ll autograph will be for Broseph. I have to think more of what I want to say, but I’m sure I’ll come up with something.

Here you go, you dimwits. Thanks.

And one last quick thing speaking of autographs. A while back, I told you about how I’m sorta friends with Stephen Chbosky – the author of “Perks of Being a Wallflower.” I met him on the movie version of the book two years ago and I stayed in touch somewhat.

Well, I recently asked Stephen to autograph a book for my former roommates’ newly adopted, teenage daughter. The teenage gal is a big fan of Perks. My former roomie sent me a text a week or so ago. She included a photo of her daughter just after she opened up the package to reveal the signed book. Her daughter had her hands clasped tight together, held close to her chest. Almost like a position of an answered prayer. Her face was pure glee. She was crawling out of her skin with delight.

When I finish my book, I’m going to sign it and do the same sorts of things as Stephen. I hope it will be a light for others. I hope it will be a spark for certain people that desperately need a light or a spark. I hope to make a newly adopted teenager’s day when she’s going through a really rough spell. I hope my book will be an answered prayer for some.

I sure hope my brother is right. Thanks Broseph. Double thanks.

April 20, 2013
Saturday, 1:31 PM

771 Dimwits and counting…

Mother,

I didn’t know which of the 16 email accounts of yours to send this to, so I decided to post it here. Hopefully it finds you, and hopefully it’s during a time when you just got back in from the warm sunshine and time spent admiring your flowers that you enjoy more than anything.

750 new followers in just over a week. This is crazy, huh? I’ve got wives reading my stories to husbands, and mothers reading my stories to daughters. Stories about wieners and Sally Jessy Ralphael’s feathered hair. Can you believe it? It’s wild. I don’t know what’s happening, but of course what’s new. I never know what’s happening, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.

You know how your free spirited, kind hearted, adventurous, and yes, your rather mischievous son of yours just seems to go along with life. It’s gotten me this far, so there’s no use in changing it now. Well, remember that time you and Dad sat me down right after I graduated college? You might not remember it, but I do. It was in the living room, and it was quiet. If I didn’t know any better, it might’ve been my own funeral that I was attending.

You and Dad wore somber, stern faces. You told me to sit down, so I did. On the couch directly across the room, not far away from your somber, stern faces. I had an idea of what was coming, some sort of boring lecture with me having to say a lot of uh-huhs in between. I’ve gotten my fair share of lectures from you, and from others, so I kinda get a sense of when they’re coming.

It was a lecture all right. I know you meant well, and I’m not here to put you down or anything like that. Mothers do the best they can – well hopefully. The good ones do anyways, and you’re a good one. But here’s what you told me. You and Dad told me to cage my free spirit. You didn’t say those words exactly, but what you meant was to put my free spirit inside a box, and put him up in the attic with all the other dusty toys. I was to be a man now. Stop playing games and get some direction in life. Some goals, a job, a career, maybe a wife, some kids, and all that other sorta stuff.

Well, I didn’t want to be a man. From all I saw at the time, being a man meant cheating husbands, divorced dads, drunks, liars, punchers, spitters, and those that like to give lectures about how I’m to play life by the rules, and become a man.

I was 21. I knew more about being a man than the asshole telling me I had better be a man, after I knew flat out that he had just beat his wife senseless a few nights ago. My friend told me. He was in tears. And now that man had the gull to tell me I had better become a man. Well, I had the gull to shut my mouth and say “uh-huh.” I knew more about being a man than him, and sometimes as a man you gotta know when to shut your mouth and say uh-huh, because it’s not worth the fight at the time. There are other ways to go about winning a fight without shouting, and cursing, and more fighting. So I left it at that: Uh-huh.

I guess this is my usual, long-winded, rambling just to tell you this, and then to follow it up with a little more rambling to wrap things up. I never put that free spirit in a cage. I never boxed him up. I kept him free, and I guess that’s why people like my stories about wieners and Franzia boxed wine, and all that other stuff.

They’re free spirits too. They’re dimwits. There’s a whole mess of us out there, and they enjoy someone who can spin a good tale, tell a whopper of a story filled with craziness and madness, but also full of love and hope. Those are the two most important ingredients to a story, because without love and hope, you might as well just read from the dictionary. The thing with telling a good story is you gotta have a free spirit to be able to tell it, so that’s why I kept him free. That and it just never made all that much sense to me why anyone should keep anything in a cage.

Thanks for being a good mom. I usually never tell you that, maybe even never. Probably because I’m too busy telling tall tales instead, but I was just thinking it’s probably nice and important for a mother to hear that from her son. It’s a lot of hard work raising kids. Not a lot of credit, late nights, no sleep, and lousy sons who make you cry when they send you letters.

I know you’re crying right now. Just like when I can sense a lecture, I can usually sense when someone’s gonna cry, too. I can sense a lot of things. Some say it’s a gift, but sometimes it’s a curse too. It can take a lot out of you with all the sensing going on all the time, and no way to turn it off. Rather than whine about a gift that others would kill to have, it feels nice to make good use of it finally. Wieners! HA.

So stay tuned. Your son is going places that only a free spirit can lead a person, and he’s taking a TON of dimwits along with him! It’s going to be a fun ride. It will be interesting at the very least.

Love,

Your son. The dimmest of all the dimwits. The dunce. The doofus.

Chris

PS. Sorry to include this photo of you with a scrunchy face, that looks like you just caught a whiff of a dog turd, but you didn’t really think the Dimwit was gonna end without a good laugh, did you? Toodles.