An Excerpt from "The Creative Creator Creates"

a book on creativity by: Some Mega-Rich "Guru" A-Hole Grifter

In order to be creative, the creator must create a creation. For a creation to be created by the creator, creativity must begin. To create the first step on the path to creativity, the creator must understand how creation is created. In other words, they must understand the beginning of creation.

It begins with a “C.” As in: “What do you see?” Look around. Take it in. Remember it because there will be a test later, and I ask tough questions. What kind of tough questions? Well, one time, the only question I asked on my test was “Why?” It blew my students’ minds. One little hotshot tried to answer by saying, "Why not?" He thought he was smart. I got him kicked out of school for being an asshole.

Now close your eyes. Look around again.

What do you see now? Is it the same stuff you saw when your eyes were open?

That’s wrong. You couldn’t be more wrong if you tried, actually. How’d you mess that one up? Were you peeking? You must be peeking if you’re still reading this. Close your eyes for real and keep looking. You’ll find that creation starts with what you see when you cannot see.

I’m assuming that you opened your eyes back up eventually, since you’re reading this (if you’re listening to the audiobook, I hope I gave you ample time to look around while your eyes were closed). Perhaps you opened them after being struck by inspiration from The Ultimate Creator. No, I’m not talking about me (though thank you for thinking that). I’m talking about The Creator From Above. I’m talking about The Creator From Within. Maybe you now think I’m talking about God. If you thought that, then you’d once again be wrong. God may have created the world, but he could not have produced The Partie Boiz’s smash hit “Groan and Sexxxy”. That is something I did myself, which may be confusing because I already told you I’m not talking about myself right now. But sometimes, even when I’m not talking about myself, I end up talking about myself. Anyways, The Ultimate Creator, The Creator From Above, The Creator From Within is…(are you ready to have your mind blown?)…you.

You just got There’s a Monster at the End of this Book’d, baby! You had a creator inside of you this whole time, and you are afraid of them because you’re afraid of yourself. You’re afraid of your own power. You’re afraid of what you can create if you truly embrace your inner creative creator. You’re afraid because you’re a little Grover-ass bitch. Well, I’m here to turn you into Super Grover. Wubba, wubba.

Pretty cool, right? Well, that’s just the start. Wait until we get to Chapter Two: “Re” (as in: do it again) and Chapter Three: “Ate” (as in: nourish yourself). There’s a whole crap ton of stuff you can learn about how to create just by looking at the word itself if you have a mind as good as mine. Which you’ll never have. But you can start to understand a mind like mine if you buy into the method I’m about to show you in the rest of this book. You can also buy into signing up for my online creativity course. It costs a lot of money. “Don’t you already have a lot of money?” you might be saying. Of course I do. But you don’t keep having a lot of money by not taking money from suckers, spreading your knowledge and understanding to people who want to learn how to be creative just like you. Let me be clear, when I say “you,” I actually mean “me.” I’m the one who is creative and can teach you how to be creative in exchange for your money, which will then become my money. That’s how money works, which, if you didn’t know, you can learn in my other book: That’s How Money Works (Tips and tricks to get lots of money all from the comfort of your own Malibu mansion), available now at any major bookstore.

One final thing before we move forward. Have you read The Artist’s Way? No? Great! Let’s keep going then.

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Relationship Frankenstein; or The Modern Brometheus

The man she knows and loves was formed, collecting parts here and there from the dissecting rooms and slaughterhouses of relationships past.

It was on an arid night in November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of my skin care routine around me, that I might infuse some glow and warmth into the lifeless, weathered face that looked back at me from the mirror. I had already applied the hyaluronic acid as a base layer. The gooey, slippery substance was sinking deep into my epidermis, where it would work its magic to reduce fine lines and wrinkles. I was just about to reach for my retinol solution when my girlfriend appeared in the arch of the doorway.

“I love that you have a skin care routine,” she said, as she beamed at me with a love I didn’t deserve. “It really says a lot about you that you take the time to take care of yourself.”

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? I smiled at my girlfriend, though inside I wanted to run away. I ached to dash into my bedquarters and smash the mirrors to rid myself of the curse of looking upon a man I no longer recognized. She loved these things about me: my skin care routine, my sense of style, the fact that I can properly use the term “male gaze,” yet she knows not these qualities I possess through no endeavors of my own.

The man she knows and loves was formed, collecting parts here and there from the dissecting rooms and slaughterhouses of relationships past. They were fused together, in an act defiant of God and Nature, until a new man emerged. A man that I fear has been cursed to roam the earth without a soul.

It was on the night of our first date that she began to fall in love with this man. I learned this much later, and when I asked her why I so immediately took her charm, she told me it was because I was “such a good listener” and “was so interested in her,” unlike many others. It was only through many failed first dates with varied women that I learned that “sharing stories about myself that your story reminded me about” does not count as “interest” and that asking follow-up questions or even a simple “that’s cool, tell me more about that” can go much further in the way of making your date feel seen.

Upon her first visit to my apartment (of which I will refrain from sharing any torrid details), she marvelled at my mattress and that it sat atop a proper bedframe. It was only recently that my slumber had achieved such loft, after another such visit ended abruptly when my guest took leave with the parting wisdom of  “miss me with that mattress on the floor mess, I don’t have time for men who don’t take pride in their home.” It had never before occurred to me that sleeping so low to the ground was a matter of pride. But the bedperch did wonders not only for my image, but also for my aging back.

“I appreciate that you dress in earthy colors that harmonize with the warm undertones of your skin.”

“You have so many towels, and by that I mean you have more than one towel.”

“I did a deep dive on your socials and didn’t find a single problematic post.”

Little did she know that one day I took search to the social archives for *my_user_name* plus any slur or pejorative term I could think of and scrubbed the record clean of any past offenses. She believes “pejorative” is a word I’ve known for years and not something I recently learned after being scolded that I needed to become a  “better straight white male ally.”

These qualities that this man possesses that she so loves are not rightfully earned through his own care and self-work. The man wonders if she is the right partner for him, or if she would just be really good friends with all of his exes. The man wonders if he is a man at all, or simply the combined efforts of all the women who ever cared enough to try to change him.

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Rejected Titles for Aaron Copland's 'Fanfare for the Common Man'

A Flourish for Those Who Typically Go Unnoticed

A Stately Introduction for a Most Unlikely Subject

Now! That's What I Call an Entrance for Normal Folk (Vol. 1)

Based on this Little Ditty, You'll Never Guess Who's About to Walk into the Room

A Specifically Targeted Jab at an Unnamed Adversary (the Rumors are True) - feat. sarcastic French Horn and ironic Timpani

Fanfare for a Bumbling Idiot

Requiem for a Bozo

A Sarcastic Entrance Announcement for the Dumbest Man Alive

An Acidulous Induction to a Pompous Ass

Steve's Song

Play this song for Steve whenever he enters a room, so at first he'll be like "All this? For me?" in that fake-humble thing Steve does all the time, but then pretty soon he'll be like "Wait, why all this for me? Something feels off about this. I know Copland when I hear Copland. Is this some kind of joke on me? Is this because I called his music 'sentimental hogwash for backwoods yokels' that one time? It is, isn't it? That son of a bitch." Yeah, Steve, that's right. Who's the "artistically decrepit populist sellout" now, Steve? That's what I thought.

Aaron's Party (Come Get It)

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