Advice Notebook

Last night, in a fit of something (bipolar disorder?) I bought a
notebook and a pen from a small bodega with the intent of writing
down people's advice. I asked the two clerks in the bodega what I
should do with my life. The younger Mexican guy was clearly
uncomfortable and had nothing, and in retrospect I don't blame
him. The older Chinese guy thought it over and said, basically,
I could continue down my current path (he's seen me before) or
do like him and get a fucking job. I then rushed over to the
Scottish-themed pub across the street because my real mission
was to ask for the advice of the Glaswegian who tends bar there.
I thought bitterly to myself, "Fuck you, Chinese guy, I don't
want to be a liquor store clerk, I want to be Scottish!"

Now two nights ago I had spent several hours shouting at this
bloke about the Associates, Aztec Camera, Celtic F.C., and Irvine
Welsh. In my imagination,I was the son he never had. This is a
pattern here, basing my entire self-esteem on the approval of a
single person. This is what is scrawled across the pages of my
notebook from last night:

"Fuck. My hero just left. I bought this notebok because I
wanted him to tell me something wise. He just shook my hand
and disappeared. He's Scottish. He probably doesn't want to be
bothered. He grew up on the streets of Glasgow. He's a writer.
I gave him some of my shit. I gave him some prose and poetry.
He said I had talent. But he also implied I was a drunken loser
who couldn't pick him out of a lineup. He asked me what I wanted
to do with said talent. He said I should probably write a
novel if I want to get my point across. What's my point? That life
in the U.S.A. sucks? He suggested that it might fly in the U.K."