When I was in middle school I drooled over my friend's RPG Maker--a stupid little piece of software that helps you make your own low-tech, mid-nineties-grade RPG. I pined for that program for years. In high school, a fellow student finally shot a copy my way, and since then I haven't been without the very disc he gave me.
When Karfilov and I lived in Canada, which was the pet name we or somebody else gave our third-story dorm room, I brought the RPG Maker out because I thought he would appreciate it, which he did, and we set to work immortalizing our selves in a game about...well, our selves. Needless to say, we didn't get very far. Trying to combine two computers' worth, two brains' worth, really, of effort, into one homogeneous program, simply was too much to ask of the dusty technology, and we never got the 'sitting around together to work on it' habit quite down pat.
That hasn't deterred me, however, and now Zounds!, the Castle-themed RPG I started six months ago, has followed in Canada's well-remembered legacy.
For months after starting it I let Zounds! go, because I busied myself with many other things. Now, I'm back into the basic programming, lengthy map-building, and all-around not-worth-the-trouble-edness, because the inanity of this activity has got me sitting in the chair, back stiff, concentrating on the screen, and, most importantly, thinking. I'm not saying Zounds! is the production of a lifetime, my career-builder. What it is, however, is a constructive project to get my self back into shape.
Or am I just making more excuses?
A good long post in the works for tomorrow: thoughts on T-Day as I spend it alone with Irish Whiskey and fine Korean dining. For now, though, I need to sleep, because I'd hate to miss everything I'm looking so forward to.
Thursday
Wednesday
Fear of God
That's it. I've killed myself tonight.
Figuratively. Literally. I dunno, depends on who or what you are.
I deactivated my Facebook account. I'm tired of maintaining it. I'm tired of it maintaining me.
I've let so many things distract me lately that I've become a distraction. Myself, my Self. That's all it can be, right?
The television. Video games. Stupid, inactive distractions from life have become a numbing sort of comfort to the only-slightly-more-demanding activities, obligations, that I completely ignore. Why? The demands.
No, homework assignments are not demanding. So why does it feel like they are? Is it some sort of reaction? I'm thinking it is.
Out of a two-year relationship, spending ungodly hours in a restaurant that is punching cancerous holes into my soul. I'm depressed because I'm exhausted, unhappy, and inhibited (physically, in my apartment, mentally, all that "laundry", and emotionally, because of my physical and mental state). I don't want to deal with it, so I'm shutting myself in, piece by piece.
And I just deactivated my Facebook account. I just, virtually, killed myself. I severed ties to family, friends, and old friends. I want to get away from them. I want to get away from them. I want to get away from them.
So what am I still doing here?
I dunno. Nobody reads this shit anyway, so it's not like I'm trading one thing for another. Here I can write, here I'm forced to. Here, I don't have ties to ex-girlfriends, and old acquaintances. Here, I'm not distracted by the past. Here, I can only write about the past, remember it. But I can't contact it, I can't communicate to it. Here, I'm only where I am now.
Which is not a great place. The next step is the television, the gaming system. I have to get away from these things, I have to concentrate on what I have to do.
So many peers, the students I'm surrounded by--they don't waste their souls on demanding jobs to make the rent every month. I do, almost every day. And if that's going to work, while school's working, I have to turn so far inward that it's painful. There's no sex and drugs for Ian, David.
I gotta get my own place. I gotta get away, make new memories, leave the old ones to gather dust. I'm killing myself here, hung up on the people I don't know or shouldn't remember. Hung up on everybody that are too compliant or comfortable. On Beatrice, who gets everything he wants, but won't get anything; on Karfilov, who has anything, but probably won't get what he wants; on Maow, Karfilov lite, who needs what she has, and should stay away from what she doesn't want, but can't; on Lovely, who can't stay away from what she doesn't want, and doesn't want what she needs (and who I still most relate to, I think); on Verde, I think that's what I named her, who represents a new direction down the same old path, a painful reminder of everything that's eating me from the inside out; and Rojo, her boyfriend, an appropriate Hindu name, who hates everything about the Chain but hasn't quit; on Mom, and Dad, and Mr. Mom, and Ms. Dad, who seem happy, but are five years ahead of me instead of twenty-five; on every goddamned thing, really.
I gotta get out of here. I feel like I'm twenty-two going on forty-five, except that I don't have the miserable office career - a miserable restaurant job certainly puts you in the right mindset, but you don't have twenty years into a savings account, assuming you've played your cards right.
I want to be creative, and I'm not. I'm repressing everything that I am because I'm in a strange environment, with strange people, at strange times.
Fear. Of. God. Ten weeks ago, my life was at a crossroads. I've simply come back around and now, maybe, I've just wasted ten weeks walking in circles.
Ten weeks is not a long time. Why does it feel like a lifetime ago?
We gotta come back, you and I. We're not going to do it here, nosiree.
The plan for tomorrow is to make it to the store, so I have a bottle of Jameson to spend T-day with. I need time to talk with Mum and Pop, too, because I don't know about Friday, and I've really been looking forward to it...
There is no comfort in self-pity, this I know. Where is the horn that was blowing? How did it come to this?
Figuratively. Literally. I dunno, depends on who or what you are.
I deactivated my Facebook account. I'm tired of maintaining it. I'm tired of it maintaining me.
I've let so many things distract me lately that I've become a distraction. Myself, my Self. That's all it can be, right?
The television. Video games. Stupid, inactive distractions from life have become a numbing sort of comfort to the only-slightly-more-demanding activities, obligations, that I completely ignore. Why? The demands.
No, homework assignments are not demanding. So why does it feel like they are? Is it some sort of reaction? I'm thinking it is.
Out of a two-year relationship, spending ungodly hours in a restaurant that is punching cancerous holes into my soul. I'm depressed because I'm exhausted, unhappy, and inhibited (physically, in my apartment, mentally, all that "laundry", and emotionally, because of my physical and mental state). I don't want to deal with it, so I'm shutting myself in, piece by piece.
And I just deactivated my Facebook account. I just, virtually, killed myself. I severed ties to family, friends, and old friends. I want to get away from them. I want to get away from them. I want to get away from them.
So what am I still doing here?
I dunno. Nobody reads this shit anyway, so it's not like I'm trading one thing for another. Here I can write, here I'm forced to. Here, I don't have ties to ex-girlfriends, and old acquaintances. Here, I'm not distracted by the past. Here, I can only write about the past, remember it. But I can't contact it, I can't communicate to it. Here, I'm only where I am now.
Which is not a great place. The next step is the television, the gaming system. I have to get away from these things, I have to concentrate on what I have to do.
So many peers, the students I'm surrounded by--they don't waste their souls on demanding jobs to make the rent every month. I do, almost every day. And if that's going to work, while school's working, I have to turn so far inward that it's painful. There's no sex and drugs for Ian, David.
I gotta get my own place. I gotta get away, make new memories, leave the old ones to gather dust. I'm killing myself here, hung up on the people I don't know or shouldn't remember. Hung up on everybody that are too compliant or comfortable. On Beatrice, who gets everything he wants, but won't get anything; on Karfilov, who has anything, but probably won't get what he wants; on Maow, Karfilov lite, who needs what she has, and should stay away from what she doesn't want, but can't; on Lovely, who can't stay away from what she doesn't want, and doesn't want what she needs (and who I still most relate to, I think); on Verde, I think that's what I named her, who represents a new direction down the same old path, a painful reminder of everything that's eating me from the inside out; and Rojo, her boyfriend, an appropriate Hindu name, who hates everything about the Chain but hasn't quit; on Mom, and Dad, and Mr. Mom, and Ms. Dad, who seem happy, but are five years ahead of me instead of twenty-five; on every goddamned thing, really.
I gotta get out of here. I feel like I'm twenty-two going on forty-five, except that I don't have the miserable office career - a miserable restaurant job certainly puts you in the right mindset, but you don't have twenty years into a savings account, assuming you've played your cards right.
I want to be creative, and I'm not. I'm repressing everything that I am because I'm in a strange environment, with strange people, at strange times.
Fear. Of. God. Ten weeks ago, my life was at a crossroads. I've simply come back around and now, maybe, I've just wasted ten weeks walking in circles.
Ten weeks is not a long time. Why does it feel like a lifetime ago?
We gotta come back, you and I. We're not going to do it here, nosiree.
The plan for tomorrow is to make it to the store, so I have a bottle of Jameson to spend T-day with. I need time to talk with Mum and Pop, too, because I don't know about Friday, and I've really been looking forward to it...
There is no comfort in self-pity, this I know. Where is the horn that was blowing? How did it come to this?
Thursday
Laundry
Laundry mounds in little heaps around the half-room, I shed every day to the floor to trip over later. If it's not important I'll reorganize clothes and blankets and towels into the closet and I'll wash it all some day one day: when I have the time, the motivation, and the quarters. It doesn't smell, it's not even soiled, but here is a stark reminder that I have things to do, obligations that wouldn't be there tomorrow if were I staunch enough to do them today.
Why shirk the journey? A basket a night and there wouldn't be any laundry in three days, save for what I don't have time to wear, neat and fresh and wrapped around a hanger, free from the sweat of stress and toil.
Life hidden in the silent folds of red and white and black. My mess of an existence is suffocating among the crusty sheets of just last month, the grease-less, royalty-free Levi's I haven't bothered to think of for even so long, and occasionally a nice white shirt or the confident feel-good briefs that I thought I'd lost forever. If you cycle it tonight you can wear it tomorrow and life won't suck up the floor space you want to have back, that drying rack doesn't need to be, and it's a clear trail to the bed when you stumble in drunk because you're stupid, and not desperate.
Why shirk the journey? A basket a night and there wouldn't be any laundry in three days, save for what I don't have time to wear, neat and fresh and wrapped around a hanger, free from the sweat of stress and toil.
Life hidden in the silent folds of red and white and black. My mess of an existence is suffocating among the crusty sheets of just last month, the grease-less, royalty-free Levi's I haven't bothered to think of for even so long, and occasionally a nice white shirt or the confident feel-good briefs that I thought I'd lost forever. If you cycle it tonight you can wear it tomorrow and life won't suck up the floor space you want to have back, that drying rack doesn't need to be, and it's a clear trail to the bed when you stumble in drunk because you're stupid, and not desperate.
Wednesday
Help Me, I Think I'm...
Diary Queens and Seven Elevans...
Two references already. Musical references, maybe.
I've observed, working in the place that I do, and being in a concentrated workplace, that one of the smalls things to get you through every painful day is your work relationships.
Specifically, the workwife/husband. I remember, when I was only a young server, being asked who my work wife was.
How to answer this question? I didn't know what a workwife was, which, to clarify, was the term more appropriate to my own heterosexual tendencies.
Broad-spectrum (I've adopted that term from House!), the concept of the work-spouse is, I think, an important one. A member of the appropriately attractive sex that gets you through the day. At barest value, the acute reader understands. Who is the specific one for you? Think about it.
When I started, I was but modest and kept my opinions to my manipulated self. There were peculiar servers, a particular lady server, perhaps, that I considered my "work wife". In retrospect, our relationship no where neared the requirements.
Because your work wife is somebody, in my case the woman, that you share a specific bond with, a bond that only the two of you have in common, and bond that she doesn't extend to any of the other staff members. Miss Canned, Mrs. Buster, and I, didn't have that marriage: I only looked up to her.
The next girl to come along, sure, we flirted. There was something, I think: She was a cute blond girl, artistic; but she extended our relationship to include a cook, and eventually exclude me, and now she doesn't even work at the Chain anymore, likely because of what didn't work out.
Since then, I've struggled to fill the void, engage a new work wife, and nothing is working. Is this why work sucks?
Because, quite simply, all of the potential candidates are quite taken with somebody else, or else, too dangerously fill the bill. Which is to say, I don't want to start a work-only flirting relationship with the cute, bilingual Spanish-type naivete, because I'd rather not explain in a month why I can't indulge in something more, that relationship that comes with the I'm-trying-to-be-nice-about-this freshman package. Don't get me wrong, she's a nice enough girl and yesterday's hug was, particularly, extended. But I'm too aware of those doughy eyes, you understand? And what do I want with new girls who have never served before, and are too taken with the arrogant assholes our own sponsored asshole has decided to hire? There's Bar, but she's taken and I respect her Man, and his local replacement; Mamma's the same age as my mother, and she's being threatened by local forces; etc, etc, etc, until all that's left is the most unlikely option, but the best choice.
What can I say, I'm ambitious? Sheldon copped a feel today! I'm two days late, but I haven't gaped a smile that big in a coon's age.
I haven't had this much whiskey intravenously in just as long. I'm depressed tonight, and looking at pictures of Lovely times isn't improving it. I expect to realize when I've hit rock bottom, and I expect I'm getting close. Water, Jack, a handle I've already replaced that warrants finishing...the hangover later, when I needs be doing work. I skipped even class today, papers are late, because I was too tired to leave bed. Is this because I am in fact exhausted, or is it something more? Depression? A shuffling of habits? Chain music? Which I'm streaming right now, by the way, and I addictively can't stand Hallmark Stars (The Lackloves: this is another song that is just plainly too obnoxious over the Chain's lousy-ass PA system). I realize I've just made a contradictory observation, but what do you expect from an observer who, just this morning, was ready with three of his greatest sub-conscious quotes ever (because last night, in Dreamy, the Quotable bit of me brain was working full-time, and I woke with the genuine intention of publishing it all: thankfully, I've forgotten everything since then, although instincts still suggest the brain's contributions were pretty bad-ass)?
Wu-wei. Sometimes, the flow is all you've got, but it's hard as hell to go against.
Two references already. Musical references, maybe.
I've observed, working in the place that I do, and being in a concentrated workplace, that one of the smalls things to get you through every painful day is your work relationships.
Specifically, the workwife/husband. I remember, when I was only a young server, being asked who my work wife was.
How to answer this question? I didn't know what a workwife was, which, to clarify, was the term more appropriate to my own heterosexual tendencies.
Broad-spectrum (I've adopted that term from House!), the concept of the work-spouse is, I think, an important one. A member of the appropriately attractive sex that gets you through the day. At barest value, the acute reader understands. Who is the specific one for you? Think about it.
When I started, I was but modest and kept my opinions to my manipulated self. There were peculiar servers, a particular lady server, perhaps, that I considered my "work wife". In retrospect, our relationship no where neared the requirements.
Because your work wife is somebody, in my case the woman, that you share a specific bond with, a bond that only the two of you have in common, and bond that she doesn't extend to any of the other staff members. Miss Canned, Mrs. Buster, and I, didn't have that marriage: I only looked up to her.
The next girl to come along, sure, we flirted. There was something, I think: She was a cute blond girl, artistic; but she extended our relationship to include a cook, and eventually exclude me, and now she doesn't even work at the Chain anymore, likely because of what didn't work out.
Since then, I've struggled to fill the void, engage a new work wife, and nothing is working. Is this why work sucks?
Because, quite simply, all of the potential candidates are quite taken with somebody else, or else, too dangerously fill the bill. Which is to say, I don't want to start a work-only flirting relationship with the cute, bilingual Spanish-type naivete, because I'd rather not explain in a month why I can't indulge in something more, that relationship that comes with the I'm-trying-to-be-nice-about-this freshman package. Don't get me wrong, she's a nice enough girl and yesterday's hug was, particularly, extended. But I'm too aware of those doughy eyes, you understand? And what do I want with new girls who have never served before, and are too taken with the arrogant assholes our own sponsored asshole has decided to hire? There's Bar, but she's taken and I respect her Man, and his local replacement; Mamma's the same age as my mother, and she's being threatened by local forces; etc, etc, etc, until all that's left is the most unlikely option, but the best choice.
What can I say, I'm ambitious? Sheldon copped a feel today! I'm two days late, but I haven't gaped a smile that big in a coon's age.
I haven't had this much whiskey intravenously in just as long. I'm depressed tonight, and looking at pictures of Lovely times isn't improving it. I expect to realize when I've hit rock bottom, and I expect I'm getting close. Water, Jack, a handle I've already replaced that warrants finishing...the hangover later, when I needs be doing work. I skipped even class today, papers are late, because I was too tired to leave bed. Is this because I am in fact exhausted, or is it something more? Depression? A shuffling of habits? Chain music? Which I'm streaming right now, by the way, and I addictively can't stand Hallmark Stars (The Lackloves: this is another song that is just plainly too obnoxious over the Chain's lousy-ass PA system). I realize I've just made a contradictory observation, but what do you expect from an observer who, just this morning, was ready with three of his greatest sub-conscious quotes ever (because last night, in Dreamy, the Quotable bit of me brain was working full-time, and I woke with the genuine intention of publishing it all: thankfully, I've forgotten everything since then, although instincts still suggest the brain's contributions were pretty bad-ass)?
Wu-wei. Sometimes, the flow is all you've got, but it's hard as hell to go against.
Tuesday
Trying Not To Bitch
I whine too much on this blog. It doesn't matter now because nobody reads it. Someday, however, when I finally have a subscriber or two, it will be because I've moved on from internal struggle to witty observations executed in fine, flowing prose.
Needless to say, for the careful reader, my Title is a great step in the right direction. This is sarcasm.
The Chain is what it is, a chain, a national chain, with broad-spectrum, non-offensive music. I hate the music, I do, I hear the same infectious pop songs every day at work and quite frankly I can't swallow them any more. So why do I come home and stream the poorly-programmed playlist from the Chain's main website? Why is their web radio bookmarked, hyperlinked for easy, return access?
Because these are infectious pop songs, that's why, and out of context they're harder to complain about. Also, I can largely ignored these songs in the relaxing comfort of my home, and get a warm, fuzzy feeling in my soul all the same. At work, that warm feeling is replaced with shrapnel and the like, which wears away at one's patience and increases one's reception to anything remotely irritating, like infectious pop songs.
I am cataloging the entire set now, song by song. Of note:
Detours - Sheryl Crow. A surprise hit out of left field -- for me, at least. Sheryl Crow any more is something of a bane in my existence. Last July Forth I was working -- at the Chain -- and they were of course broadcasting the free concert that was happening just over the river at the Art Museum. Splitting my attention between her show and the Miss World Pageant (nevermind that the restaurant was dead), I finally decided that Sheryl Crow is in fact a supermodel posing as a rock star: and from this angle, certain huge singles come off as plainly irritating. So I was not expecting Detours, a sweet, delicate number, to share in with Crow's regular commercial stock. What do I know, though? If the world has already discovered this song I wouldn't have the slightest idea, because I live in the quiet, unpenetrated dark about such things, i.e., I don't follow the radio.
Juliet of the Spirits - the B-52s. This song has grown on me. I didn't recognize the artists right away because Fred Schnieder is conspicuously absent from the vocal track, and Cindy and Kate's voices are subdued, whether by the chorus's ghostly affectation, or age, I can't tell (one informs the other, I think). The song is off of the 2008 album Funplex, and demonstrates that the B-52s can still cut a hellishly catchy number -- I'd argue that, despite their legacy, they're in fact an underrated pop band.
Shine On - The Kooks. Maybe you're heard this in a recent television ad somewhere? Never mind, I hate this song. The lyrics are not awful, but they could be a lot better. The chorus is bright, upbeat, and induces suicide. I'm sure my opinion is jaded by the fact that this is one of the more prevalent songs over our lousy PA system, but when you're hearing it once and even twice a day, you seriously consider how potentially lethal a petty excuse for a steak knife can be. Which is nothing to say for-
That song. Oh. My. God. I only wish I knew what it was called. I'll find out, in time, and post as soon as I do. It is so freaking slow, so painfully melancholic, so inappropriate in an upbeat dining establishment, especially one that frequently lacks enough business to qualify as 'upbeat'. It completely and thoroughly sucks your adrenaline out through your eyeballs and leaves your soul dead on the floor, but isn't thoughtful enough to offer the body a complimentary gesture. I've pondered, often and only during this song, what will bring the swiftest, sweetest release: The grill, which is hot and bears merciful flame; a cook's knife, sharp and broad; the bar, to make up for that laughable paycheck in alcohol poisoning; or the simple insult of a guest, who is likely packing heat, of which there's rarely a shortage.
Needless to say, for the careful reader, my Title is a great step in the right direction. This is sarcasm.
The Chain is what it is, a chain, a national chain, with broad-spectrum, non-offensive music. I hate the music, I do, I hear the same infectious pop songs every day at work and quite frankly I can't swallow them any more. So why do I come home and stream the poorly-programmed playlist from the Chain's main website? Why is their web radio bookmarked, hyperlinked for easy, return access?
Because these are infectious pop songs, that's why, and out of context they're harder to complain about. Also, I can largely ignored these songs in the relaxing comfort of my home, and get a warm, fuzzy feeling in my soul all the same. At work, that warm feeling is replaced with shrapnel and the like, which wears away at one's patience and increases one's reception to anything remotely irritating, like infectious pop songs.
I am cataloging the entire set now, song by song. Of note:
Detours - Sheryl Crow. A surprise hit out of left field -- for me, at least. Sheryl Crow any more is something of a bane in my existence. Last July Forth I was working -- at the Chain -- and they were of course broadcasting the free concert that was happening just over the river at the Art Museum. Splitting my attention between her show and the Miss World Pageant (nevermind that the restaurant was dead), I finally decided that Sheryl Crow is in fact a supermodel posing as a rock star: and from this angle, certain huge singles come off as plainly irritating. So I was not expecting Detours, a sweet, delicate number, to share in with Crow's regular commercial stock. What do I know, though? If the world has already discovered this song I wouldn't have the slightest idea, because I live in the quiet, unpenetrated dark about such things, i.e., I don't follow the radio.
Juliet of the Spirits - the B-52s. This song has grown on me. I didn't recognize the artists right away because Fred Schnieder is conspicuously absent from the vocal track, and Cindy and Kate's voices are subdued, whether by the chorus's ghostly affectation, or age, I can't tell (one informs the other, I think). The song is off of the 2008 album Funplex, and demonstrates that the B-52s can still cut a hellishly catchy number -- I'd argue that, despite their legacy, they're in fact an underrated pop band.
Shine On - The Kooks. Maybe you're heard this in a recent television ad somewhere? Never mind, I hate this song. The lyrics are not awful, but they could be a lot better. The chorus is bright, upbeat, and induces suicide. I'm sure my opinion is jaded by the fact that this is one of the more prevalent songs over our lousy PA system, but when you're hearing it once and even twice a day, you seriously consider how potentially lethal a petty excuse for a steak knife can be. Which is nothing to say for-
That song. Oh. My. God. I only wish I knew what it was called. I'll find out, in time, and post as soon as I do. It is so freaking slow, so painfully melancholic, so inappropriate in an upbeat dining establishment, especially one that frequently lacks enough business to qualify as 'upbeat'. It completely and thoroughly sucks your adrenaline out through your eyeballs and leaves your soul dead on the floor, but isn't thoughtful enough to offer the body a complimentary gesture. I've pondered, often and only during this song, what will bring the swiftest, sweetest release: The grill, which is hot and bears merciful flame; a cook's knife, sharp and broad; the bar, to make up for that laughable paycheck in alcohol poisoning; or the simple insult of a guest, who is likely packing heat, of which there's rarely a shortage.
Sunday
and.
Got a hug from one of my regular strippers a few weeks back as I walked into the Cube. Just something I'd like to get out there, especially to the readers from back home.
"Mad came by tonight, right? Yeah, I'm losing my mind."
Which kind of epitomizes how I'm feeling.
Hello. I haven't written here on Something Else in well over a month. In fact, the last time I did, I was proud of my screenwriting achievement. The one over my roommate? You can read about it below.
Page 88 is where I've stopped, and I haven't looked at the damned thing in six weeks. Here's why:
1. The term started. I owe the school $12000, which I don't have.
2. Week 2: Term is two weeks in. I've resolved my tuition problem, effectively draining my savings account and falling guilty on my knees before several department heads. Was an hour late to work the day they transferred two grande from an emergency account to keep me in school, mere hours before class registration closed.
3. Week 3: Fresh-faced, I learn the basic tenants of Hinduism and read half of Jane Eyre in days. Gonna be a rough term. First draft of that screenplay is due already, but I haven't finished it. I don't remember clearly, but Lovely's probably moved away by now. She didn't want to renew her lease and never found a new apartment. This was significant factor, if you will, in her decision to move back home.
4. Week 6: Was it Week 6? I can't remember well. Flogged by association with three of the major Eastern religious systems, and Jane Eyre and Heart of Darkness--I realize now that I didn't explain, I'm in an Eastern Philosophy class and a British Literature Class--I'm tired, but catching up on those two weeks of lost time. Screenplay still not done. Lovely and I are stretched thin. I'm trying to make it work, more for her sake than mine, and It's not working that way. I believe it is in Week Six, maybe Week Five, that the Phillies lose to the Yankees. Sigh. Next year, boys. Off with Pedro.
I'm sorry, Pedro's a fine pitcher. Or wait, maybe he was FIVE YEARS AGO when he led Boston to THEIR victory. Pitchers expire. Cliff Lee hasn't. Where's your goddamned common sense?
Maybe next year. The Phils are still a sharp bunch. The heartbreak has almost gone away, and at least I can drink Brooklyn again.
Which is my favorite draught over at the Cube. Brooklyn Lager. It's expensive, a fiver a pint, but amazing. Karfilov doesn't much care for it, which really only cements the thirst I've developed. He says it's too buttery. He didn't like Punk either, the Dogfish Head seasonal. I never doubt his judgment, but my tongue is mine own, and I'm damned happy with it. I didn't drink Brooklyn all through the Series, which was hard. Worse: my favorite thermal shirt is in the closet for the season. It's an Old Navy piece and it says "New York" right across the front, in script. Until I'm over this inner welling, which is to say when I see a blue-and-gray hat or a that shirt somewhere in the street and don't automatically snarl, I simply can't wear mine. Sucks, but my black thermal is catching the slack. And the skull on it is cool.
5. Halloween. Lovely and I agree that this is it. Ideally, this should make our last night together agreeable, albeit bittersweet. It's same-old same-old, however, and I push her as far as I ever have--for a few days, I wore proof in the form of a bruised lower lip. We couldn't exactly establish whether that was from her drunken punch or when she bit me later on, during the "I'm drunk and I want this" session-o-intimacy. -Sex. Talked to her last week when she was out getting pizza, but she was staying at a friends' house and I didn't want to see her. I still...don't. Do. It's tough, right? We're over, and I have so many reasons that convince me it's the right thing to do. Each day is getting harder, though. It's withdrawal, which I've gone through in mild stages: when I go Home I don't smoke, and after a few days the headache is unmanageable. The same if I haven't had a cup of coffee in two days, or a drink, and now it's Lovely. Had a great conversation at the bar last night with Katharine (I didn't know it was the Katharine!), a girl I work with whose relationship is constantly tumultuous: it's helped, she's a good ally, and we had fun. She sent me an appreciative text which I didn't get until tonight.
Honestly, she's only one of the minor crushes I entertain at work. I've felt for a while that there's something potential between us, but we're both responsible enough to leave it be. Our dishwasher is a cute girl who doesn't speak a word of English, and doesn't seem to enjoy her job, so I do my best to give her a reason to smile. My boss is great, but I've already told you that. She was in my dream the other night--it wasn't like that, of course, but I still woke up with that sort of, Woah, feeling.
My dreams. I managed them for a while, a few shots of Jack and I wouldn't dream a damned thing. But I've adapted, and now the visions are as forward as ever, intense, vivid, and distracting. This is to say, not sleeping well again. Maybe that's because I've broken up with my girlfriend, I hate my job, I'm having trouble with school, I want a new place, and I'm sick for home!
Did I mention Lovely and I are over? It's bothering me more by the day, I'm sure the worst is yet to come. I only pray that she's doing well, but I do her no good trying to be there when I don't take care of myself first. Not to be selfish, honest. But it is impossible, I feel, to give yourself to somebody when there's nothing to give her, and right now I'm not much of something.
Work is hard, school is hard. Haven't finished draft Number One, and the third one is due in a matter of weeks. Drinking too much, maybe. Cut back on the cigarettes, dropped Newports for Marlboro Lights, and my lungs have been rebuilding themselves, if just a little. I can feel it.
That I'm back writing here is a step in a good direction. I'm in a sinkhole that I need to climb out of, and getting back to the habit is a healthy start. I know that I've been tired, exhausted really, with life. But weeks, months ago, before all this happened, I was going somewhere. So I just need to get back on the path, right? Walk straight. Things Are Tough All Over, some wise philosophers once reasoned. Pick yourself up, kiddo, dust yourself off. Wipe the blood from your lip and nose, swallow it if need be, tighten up those laces and get going.
Mad's been in LA for three months, but she came by tonight and was happy to see me. She's no worse for the ware, which isn't bad, though I detect a subtle change in her. Maybe it's wishful thinking, maybe I just haven't had contact with her in so long that I've forgotten. She's lost weight, so there's a physical change...maybe a mental one to match?
Truth is, I had to remember she was here. I took a shower tonight, and she popped in to say goodbye--that's how I remembered she was actually here. Tonight. Tonight's a Saturday, right?
So much to write about. The muscle is rusty, nothing a little oil can't fix. One day at a time, one day at a time, one day at a time.
Licking the blood off, lips are chapped and dirty. Spitting the grit out, no use staying down.
Where have I been?
Hello. I haven't written here on Something Else in well over a month. In fact, the last time I did, I was proud of my screenwriting achievement. The one over my roommate? You can read about it below.
Page 88 is where I've stopped, and I haven't looked at the damned thing in six weeks. Here's why:
1. The term started. I owe the school $12000, which I don't have.
2. Week 2: Term is two weeks in. I've resolved my tuition problem, effectively draining my savings account and falling guilty on my knees before several department heads. Was an hour late to work the day they transferred two grande from an emergency account to keep me in school, mere hours before class registration closed.
3. Week 3: Fresh-faced, I learn the basic tenants of Hinduism and read half of Jane Eyre in days. Gonna be a rough term. First draft of that screenplay is due already, but I haven't finished it. I don't remember clearly, but Lovely's probably moved away by now. She didn't want to renew her lease and never found a new apartment. This was significant factor, if you will, in her decision to move back home.
4. Week 6: Was it Week 6? I can't remember well. Flogged by association with three of the major Eastern religious systems, and Jane Eyre and Heart of Darkness--I realize now that I didn't explain, I'm in an Eastern Philosophy class and a British Literature Class--I'm tired, but catching up on those two weeks of lost time. Screenplay still not done. Lovely and I are stretched thin. I'm trying to make it work, more for her sake than mine, and It's not working that way. I believe it is in Week Six, maybe Week Five, that the Phillies lose to the Yankees. Sigh. Next year, boys. Off with Pedro.
I'm sorry, Pedro's a fine pitcher. Or wait, maybe he was FIVE YEARS AGO when he led Boston to THEIR victory. Pitchers expire. Cliff Lee hasn't. Where's your goddamned common sense?
Maybe next year. The Phils are still a sharp bunch. The heartbreak has almost gone away, and at least I can drink Brooklyn again.
Which is my favorite draught over at the Cube. Brooklyn Lager. It's expensive, a fiver a pint, but amazing. Karfilov doesn't much care for it, which really only cements the thirst I've developed. He says it's too buttery. He didn't like Punk either, the Dogfish Head seasonal. I never doubt his judgment, but my tongue is mine own, and I'm damned happy with it. I didn't drink Brooklyn all through the Series, which was hard. Worse: my favorite thermal shirt is in the closet for the season. It's an Old Navy piece and it says "New York" right across the front, in script. Until I'm over this inner welling, which is to say when I see a blue-and-gray hat or a that shirt somewhere in the street and don't automatically snarl, I simply can't wear mine. Sucks, but my black thermal is catching the slack. And the skull on it is cool.
5. Halloween. Lovely and I agree that this is it. Ideally, this should make our last night together agreeable, albeit bittersweet. It's same-old same-old, however, and I push her as far as I ever have--for a few days, I wore proof in the form of a bruised lower lip. We couldn't exactly establish whether that was from her drunken punch or when she bit me later on, during the "I'm drunk and I want this" session-o-intimacy. -Sex. Talked to her last week when she was out getting pizza, but she was staying at a friends' house and I didn't want to see her. I still...don't. Do. It's tough, right? We're over, and I have so many reasons that convince me it's the right thing to do. Each day is getting harder, though. It's withdrawal, which I've gone through in mild stages: when I go Home I don't smoke, and after a few days the headache is unmanageable. The same if I haven't had a cup of coffee in two days, or a drink, and now it's Lovely. Had a great conversation at the bar last night with Katharine (I didn't know it was the Katharine!), a girl I work with whose relationship is constantly tumultuous: it's helped, she's a good ally, and we had fun. She sent me an appreciative text which I didn't get until tonight.
Honestly, she's only one of the minor crushes I entertain at work. I've felt for a while that there's something potential between us, but we're both responsible enough to leave it be. Our dishwasher is a cute girl who doesn't speak a word of English, and doesn't seem to enjoy her job, so I do my best to give her a reason to smile. My boss is great, but I've already told you that. She was in my dream the other night--it wasn't like that, of course, but I still woke up with that sort of, Woah, feeling.
My dreams. I managed them for a while, a few shots of Jack and I wouldn't dream a damned thing. But I've adapted, and now the visions are as forward as ever, intense, vivid, and distracting. This is to say, not sleeping well again. Maybe that's because I've broken up with my girlfriend, I hate my job, I'm having trouble with school, I want a new place, and I'm sick for home!
Did I mention Lovely and I are over? It's bothering me more by the day, I'm sure the worst is yet to come. I only pray that she's doing well, but I do her no good trying to be there when I don't take care of myself first. Not to be selfish, honest. But it is impossible, I feel, to give yourself to somebody when there's nothing to give her, and right now I'm not much of something.
Work is hard, school is hard. Haven't finished draft Number One, and the third one is due in a matter of weeks. Drinking too much, maybe. Cut back on the cigarettes, dropped Newports for Marlboro Lights, and my lungs have been rebuilding themselves, if just a little. I can feel it.
That I'm back writing here is a step in a good direction. I'm in a sinkhole that I need to climb out of, and getting back to the habit is a healthy start. I know that I've been tired, exhausted really, with life. But weeks, months ago, before all this happened, I was going somewhere. So I just need to get back on the path, right? Walk straight. Things Are Tough All Over, some wise philosophers once reasoned. Pick yourself up, kiddo, dust yourself off. Wipe the blood from your lip and nose, swallow it if need be, tighten up those laces and get going.
Mad's been in LA for three months, but she came by tonight and was happy to see me. She's no worse for the ware, which isn't bad, though I detect a subtle change in her. Maybe it's wishful thinking, maybe I just haven't had contact with her in so long that I've forgotten. She's lost weight, so there's a physical change...maybe a mental one to match?
Truth is, I had to remember she was here. I took a shower tonight, and she popped in to say goodbye--that's how I remembered she was actually here. Tonight. Tonight's a Saturday, right?
So much to write about. The muscle is rusty, nothing a little oil can't fix. One day at a time, one day at a time, one day at a time.
Licking the blood off, lips are chapped and dirty. Spitting the grit out, no use staying down.
Where have I been?
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