"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?