quick confession, too.

I didn't mean to call myself a saint. I didn't mean to imply I'm saintly. I'm just as much a thorn in everybody's side. A jerk, a jackass. A bad guy?

I raid the fridge, both food and alcohol, quite shamelessly; I'm fairly disrespectful of personal space. I've messed a few people up, not physically, but maybe I make a bigger deal of it in my head than I should. I'm entirely capable of underestimating people, but I've had a mixture of experiences that have left me wildly indecisive.

I don't really like a lot of people, and I don't see people in favorable lights. I automatically think or assume the worst. Regardless, I try to see all the sides and disregard them just the same.

I think part of this is conditioning: I've been at the Chain almost two years, and waiting on people in Philadelphia is a bittering psychological adventure. I'm vindictive by virtue of what I do, and surrounded by people who are the same. I grew up in solitude, so I'm isolating by nurture. It's hard to connect out when you cling stubbornly to what you know.

I try to balance myself against my roommates, who are internal and static. I try to balance myself against my coworkers, who are becoming a gang of raging alcoholics. The ones that stay, anyway. I try to be real to myself and my environment, which leaves me largely unapologetic, but I acknowledge my guilt.

I don't know how much of this, if any, makes sense. I am trying to hold my own, though, which requires a degree of aggression. Once I conquer my own begrudged laziness, I can put this aggression to more fruitful use. Just keep telling yourself this, keep putting it online, right? Whine, whine, whine...if nobody else is reading, at least the internet is listening. Wow, pretty pathetic. Maybe I should be writing this shit down, instead of typing it out. At least then somebody will discover it, if only eventually.

The Changeling, & What I Do

In school, I am obliged to write two [2] full-length screenplays, one as a workshop exercise and the other as my senior project. Beatrice had to do the same thing.

His workshop exercise was a dismal piece that only passed because he finished it. He came in well above par, it was seventy-seven pages. It was supposed to be between ninety-five and a hundred or so.

I just nudged mine over eighty pages, and still haven't resolved the main conflict. I use Beatrice's experiences as a bar, albeit a low one, so I consider this my first major success. Call it malevolent, or what you will, but if he's going to live vicariously through me, as he does from time to time, I have a right to be a little bitter toward him.

I laugh because I must put him through hell, but sometimes I feel justified in doing so. Somebody has to make his life interesting, and he can afford therapy if he needs it.

I like coffee. I like making coffee, smelling coffee, and drinking coffee. Not too keen on the physical rush, the jitters, but sometimes I embrace the feeling with a certain, unavoidable giddiness. Right now, induced states irritate me a bit, but I think that's because I spent the day with a numbing hangover. I'm in and out of phases, inconsistent, to be honest. In secret, I fear an irresponsible combination of caffeine and nicotine will one day literally explode my heart. So I'm also a little paranoid, even if I don't act like it.