Bad Obsession

But I can't stop thinkin bout doin it one more time...
But I already left you and you're better off left behind...

This has got to stop eventually.

This.

All of this.

It has got to end soon.

It's destroying me. And there's not much left.

like clockwork

i wake up around the 5 o'clock hour. don't need to. this is just when i can't seem to sleep anymore. it's early enough for me to experience a few more hours of darkened solitude before the the sun begins to rise.

i don't think i've gone through a harder time than now. it's got to get easier. i'm barely holding on. i am losing it. can't you tell?

Lay down my burdens.

This is a really dark time. I've sent my résumé to several different temp agencies, but there's very little I want to do. Aside from drop dead. And death won't pay the cable bill.

My liquor expenses now exceed my food expenses. I bought $16 in groceries that I'm hoping will last me a week or two, with careful rationing. And then a $24 bottle of booze that will probably not be with me that long.

My focus comes and goes. Not as wall-to-wall inconsolable as I once was. Just this low, steady thrum of melancholia. A sense of dread that looms and occasionally stings.

I get emotional when I watch Battlestar Galactica. I think that's a good indication that I'm losing it.

Dear Reader, take some solace in the knowledge that I am more depressed and lonely than you will ever be in your entire life. (Save, perhaps, your respective death beds.)

When I'm going to sleep, sometimes I hope that I don't wake up. That's a new one for me. Which is funny because it seems like the perfect escapist fantasy and you'd think I'd've had it years ago.

Well, this has been another cheery entry in the Misanthropy Chronicles.

We'll Meet Again

In the reimagined Battlestar Galactica, the mass-produced humanoid Cylons can transfer their consciousness to another body when their current body is destroyed. Thusly, death doesn't mean an end.

"Death can be a learning experience."

I do loathe learning experiences...

This is a remarkably difficult time. Broken heart aside, my career is right on the edge and I don't know when it's going to take off or fall off. Which means eating pride --

[[["Pride? You've got pride left?!" needled the Gay Horse. "Reading this blog, all signs point to a notable dearth of pride! If there's any left in you, it'd make for a pitiable meal, I imagine...! Haaaay!!!"]]]

-- and applying for some bullshit office work to help make ends meet.

I've thought about looking for something other than traditional office temp work. Just to not feel the rut of that old routine. I'll see what I can do. If anyone's got some choice Glengarry leads, please share the wealth.

Everything is wrong. Do you know what I mean? Everything is wrong about right now. 2009 can only go up from here, yeh, but come on... is that the most optimistic thing I can say about right now?

20 Tragic Endings

The weekend. What happened. Last week was a complete nightmare, enhanced by being so sick. Weekend came on, it was good to get out.

Went to a fucking dance club Saturday night. I know. Have a laugh, why don't you? Not many laughs on this blog lately, so enjoy what you get. I was with a group of people and it was one of those "social gambles" that I take periodically rather than suffer the consequences of NEVER MEETING ANYONE NEW.

Won't go into details, but I ended up staying out till 5am and it was all actually sort of... good.

Slept for four hours. Dove into a lazy Sunday watching Battlestar Galactica. There is nothing quite so comforting as spending a day watching a good tv show without commercial interruptions. I'm only on the latter half of season 2 so no spoilers, assholes.

My favorite character is Dr. Gaius Baltar, who's hopelessly in love with an evil robot woman who haunts his thoughts day and night. I don't know why I identify with this character.

Trying to get stronger. Meet more people, with the hope that my own personal haunting will start to lessen.

Some Monday humors for you...

Revised Choose-Your-Own-Adventure Covers.

Think Mac

Apple Introduces Revolutionary New Laptop With No Keyboard

advice-o-holics

it's tiring. the search for answers. the search for solutions. it's like searching for the holy grail: the fucking thing doesn't exist, and even if it did it probably doesn't do the thing that you're hoping it does...

doesn't heal you.

there's no operation to erase the memories i want to erase.

therapy, self-help books, 12-step groups, message boards... most of the people who read this may not have much experience with these things, so trust me when i tell you that it can be a bit like running in circles. at least booze can afford me fleeting stretches of oblivion.

"why can't you just let it go?"

because i fucking can't! you don't think i'm fucking trying? does it look like i'm enjoying this? all i want is to forget it. all i want is to move on.

i ain't gonna take up some new fucking hobbies, and i ain't gonna do some fucking volunteer work. and i most certainly ain't gonna give it up for "god". i understand where it's all coming from but it's not for me.

i got plenty to do.

i can compartmentalize. get through certain things. seem like a functional human being for good stretches. but what i have to do sometimes to get through a day or night on my own... it's not good...

i need to get out of this.

Worlds Away

There's nothing quite like being sick for a week. I oughta be thankful I didn't have to work an office job this week...

... but I am thankful for nothing....


I wish I could strap you into a dark ride and let you experience exactly what I've been experiencing for the past few weeks. Then you would understand. Then you would understand. Then you would understand.

I am in a horrifying state. Mentally and physically rotten.

No one gets it.

I just want some peace of mind.

I want a world that's not so corrosive.

Goddamn. I feel like I've given away my life for nothing. For large plots of nothing. All I've got to bargain with, in exchanged for scorched earth.

Nothing grows here.

Nothing lives.

Nothing thrives.

I fucked up... I really fucked up...

So Far Away

Monday through Wednesday, completely sick. Sore throat, the aches, the works. Wednesday night and it all still hurts like hell.

I've slept a lot but I haven't gotten a decent night's sleep in... well, seems like forever. Tuesday night I was wrenching about in bed till daybreak.

Do you know what it feels like to hurt down to your core?

When nothing is right?

Everything inside of me is rotten. How many ways can I say this over the course of a year's worth of blog entries?

Kramers Ergot 7

BUY ME THIS.

(P.S. I think I'm dying.)

Brave New World

Starts here. New world order.

I'm too blurry to write articulately. Inauguration. A thousand other blogs to give you more to think about.

For me... I can't think of the larger world.

All of my violence is local.

when you lose something you can't replace

Where the Forlorn Things Are

I love how melancholy all the wild things appear to be.

This is the way the world is, children.

This is the way the world ends. (With deep, swollen regrets.)

Dark times, brothers and sisters. Bleak and frigid. Sunlight in the distance but we've got many hours to go before then.

She never loved me!!! (Why would anyone??)

You know what's great? You know what's really lovely? Pining after someone who never loved you. That is absolutely tops. Self-respecting and sun-shiney.

I need to erase these memories. They linger and eat away at me. I wish they'd just disappear. The fond memories need to go.

They aren't real. And even if they were, they're not helpful to me.

I need out of this. Time doesn't heal. It scabs. It scars.

I need better things to happen for me sooner. This is not working.

One day... things are going to get easier.

CRY WOLF

oh dear blog, i hate to quit you! you've been my constant companion since 2003. it must get frustrating to read the same stories over and over again. a steady diet of train wreck accounts. it's frustrating to live, let alone recount.

i'm sorry i had to stop blogging, but i had to figure some things out for myself. take some inventory of my life. and now, i've returned.

but all things must end.

all things, abandoned. left for dead.

so, this is really, really my final blog entry. (for today.)

i will not write another blog entry. (today.)

goodbye, cruel world. i'm leaving you today.

goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

goodbye, all you people. there's nothing you can say to make me change my mind.

goodbye.

(((i mean it.)))

when the power goes out, we'll just hum

my nights, they end in train wrecks.

i can prevent this. i can NOT end it in wreckage each night.

it might be argued that i've come to find strange solace in wreckage. the continued assault on myself.

i've been watching a steady stream of tv crime doc shows. cold case files. notorious. american justice. the first 48 hours. there's been something comforting in them. senseless killings. any love stories end in murder. but then there is the methodical unraveling of the truth. fibers, dna evidence, confessions. most of the stories end with incarceration.

justice.

lifetime sentences. once in a while, if i'm lucky, there's a death sentence.

we can't go on like this, can we, blog?

for the longtime readers, thanks for your interest. this is my final blog entry. the last one ever. as god is my witness, this is the last blog entry i will ever write, ever ever ever.

you don't mean it but it hurts like hell

Another productive conference call with assorted producers Tuesday night. Just watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat.

2009: Advantage Malice.

God. Damn. It. To. Hell.

I don't mean this to turn into some kind of navel-gazing blog rant but -- for fuck sake -- I have gone so far off the deep end, I do not know what I have been doing. But I can promise you, it has been self dehs truck tive.

I am in more pain than you can fucking fathom. I am in more pain than you can conjure up in your wildest dreams.

Mark these words, though, gentle dubious voyeuristic hating admiring curious lurking reader...

... even if I die young, I will be leaving a mark. I am determined to leave a mark.

An unsightly scar upon pop culture.

This is my final blog entry. Thank you for coming this far.

You Can Be Frightened

Good conference call with a producer on Monday. My first big business call of the year. Another call with more producers Tuesday night. People want to be in the Malice Highload business. People who don't read this godforsaken blog.

Work is the salvation. Work will set me free.

Need to keep focus now.

What the fuck have I been through? What the fuck have I put myself through?

Not out. Not out of the woods. Lapses, relapses, it's how it works.

The way I've been living, I don't know how much longer I've got. Seriously. So I've got to make this count. I've got to make this stupid life count.

Piss Christ

Jesus Christ was 33 when he was crucified.

At least he had a fucking girlfriend who cared about him...

There, I said it. Jesus had it easy. What are you gonna do about it? Complain to "God"?? I'm sooo scared!

(Italics indicate sarcasm.)

Sadly, I may have to crucify myself, Tori Amos style.

(I made myself laugh smirk at that bit.)

Bad weekend, brothers and sisters. All the bad thoughts came to roost.

Relatively busy week ahead. Calls with producers, talks with reps. We'll see what comes of it all.

I Learned the Truth at 33

As I write this... well, I couldn't be drunker.

Let me revise that. I could be drunker but I haven't been drunker in quite a while which is, trust me, a remarkable statement.

I am astonished by the number of birthday well-wishers I amassed on Facebook. Must've been a slow day for a lot of people. Or they managed to find this blog and discovered how deathly I've been. Maybe they heard I'm about to die and wanted to get in on my final hours.

Jesus Fucking Christ. I am so worn out I don't know which way is up.

I think that I have been a mess over "what went wrong". This is what kills me. This is how I die.

I don't feel safe in this world no more. I don't want to die in a nuclear war. I want to sail away to a distant shore.

The world has got to get better than this, hasn't it?

There are better worlds than this.

One day, the world will get better.

Trauma 33

Paged through a book on insomnia at the bookstore the other day. I'm basically doing just about everything wrong. No surprises there. The 3-4 unpleasant hours a night that I'm averaging: my fault. Arrest me.

33 today. What have I done. Where has it gone.

Wake up before sunrise each mourning. Contemplate the darkness. The sounds of other people's lives waking up through the thin walls.

Anger. Rage. Frustration. A profound, rolling sadness.

Pinpricks of light in the distance. Some positive buzz from the managers out West. Signs of hope in the next week. I ought to be boosted by this. I am, to an extent. I need my career. Without my career, I've really got nothing. Friends and family are lovely but there is only so much they can do.

I should be hopeful. There's got to be some cosmic balance. My personal life is now a quiet hell, therefore it's okay for my career to really take off. Because I can't have everything. Not at the same time. Something has got to suffer.

Still. It hurts. The punishing thoughts linger. I should forgive myself for all that I've failed, but I can't. Not at this hour. Can't forget, can't forgive, can't find peace. Not today. Not at 33.

Today was supposed to be so much better than it is.

Violence and Danger

My whole world seems to have unraveled a month before my 33rd year.

First week of the new year, I've barely been here.

I've been upstate, with the mom and sis. Playing crazy 8s and go fish.

Back to the city with sis for a few days. Tried out bouldering. Finally went to see August: Osage County.

January 7th. Day before my birthday. Day my sister heads back to Oregon and I'm back to dealing with the broken pieces of my life on my own.

My mind remains volatile. There is a self-destructive aspect of myself that has been triggered and keeps setting off. I've gotten back to writing more and hopefully I'll be able to channel some of my frustrations into something productive... but the fact remains that my fuel is hatred.

Self-hatred.

These things that I do, these things that may seem positive and healthy... going to the gym, finishing up some new screenplay drafts, writing a new full-length play... these things are really outlets to punish myself. I am completely fucking broken inside and I simply can't give two fucks.

Day before my 33rd year and I can't forgive myself for all that I've done wrong. For all that I've fucked up. It may be irrational. My rage ought to be directed elsewhere. But at this hour, I can't contain that self-critical part of me that just will not let up. This isn't some kind of tortured artist bullshit. This is me genuinely fucking despising myself and my ticker tape parade of failures. I deserve destruction. I've earned it.

This is my new prayer.

Hallelujah, motherfuckers.

This is the way the world ends.

Nanuet Mall

Saturday with mom and sis, we make a surprise visit to the Nanuet Mall. That suburban mall of my adolescent years.

Growing up, it was a standard two-level mall. When I left for college, it gradually built up in size and scope. Additional floors, movie-plex, huge entertainment facilities. I think I briefly saw this expanded version, sometime after college.

Visiting it this weekend, though... January 3, 2009... it was like visiting ruins...

I was expecting some healthy post-holiday traffic, maybe some vaguely familiar faces in the crowd.

What we found was a sparsely attended mall with vacant store lots every few paces. Aside from the antiquated and perennial MACY*S, there was little here that had remained thriving from childhood.

Nothing remains.

Saturday was an awful day. Could not get the bad thoughts out of my head. Like some kind of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Violent, self-destructive thoughts and imagery. I could barely even talk on Saturday.

Goshen

Friday, January 2, 2009. My sister and I up at my mom's house in Goshen, NY. Mom at work in the billings department of the local hospital until 4pm. Big sis and I go for a walk through the small town.

On the heels of weeks of trauma, it's sort of nice to be somewhere *else*.

Breakfast at quaint, local, triangle-shaped diner called Elsie's.

Stroll past coffee shops. Bakery. Pharmacy.

"No Trespassing" signs on a boarded up house...

... with an ajar door...

Small town life.

We happen upon a snow-covered harness-racing track. A historical site. We walk around the cold white track. It is oddly peaceful here.

There is a museum attached to this track.

A harness racing museum. Free tours today. January 2, 2009. We go for it.

A startlingly thorough museum all about the history and magic of harness racing...

Portraits...

Vintage drawings...

Life-size dioramas...

Talking statues with half-assed "horse" voices...

Touchable exhibits... for kids...

A winding path of history lessons...

... culminating in something surprisingly ambitious for a small town museum. A "harness-racing simulator".

One of the high-school aged tour guides eagerly greets us toward the end of the museum path and asks us if we'd like to try the simulator.

Um... hell yeah?

He brings us into this little screening room. (Sorry I don't have a good pic of it.) A table filled with 3d glasses. A rising stand of seats. Once seated, mechanical lap bars descend upon us, like a low-rent Disney ride. A large screen is before us. Not IMAX large; just large enough to establish the effect.

The "simulation" begins and this 3d video immerses you in the thrilling world of... harness racing. After some establishing shots, you're in the race. Staring at the ass-end of the racer in front of you. The simulator vibrates soothingly, creating a decent effect of riding in a horse-drawn chariot. To spike the 3d excitement, the videomakers insert 90's era computer generated virtual *pebbles* flying out at you... as well as an occasional, nonsensical virtual horseshoe.

Now that's what I call pod-racing.

If I had not been in a deep state of depression while riding this, I might have laughed my ass off. And yet, it was way more than I expected out of a small town museum. Funnier still that it probably would have been a lot less expensive for them to just take us out onto the track and let us actually harness-race.

Surreal and elsewhere, here. Good to be away from the city. But no less lost here.

The pain and memories continue to come and go. Every so often, it's like a blade is wrenched into my gut and I've got no choice but to take it.

very special episode

retreated from the city for the weekend, to be with family, detoxify the mind and body.

the scene:

mother and sister watching one of my screeners in the living room...

... and me skulking about the kitchen, prying into cabinets, looking for any sign of booze.

before i leave, i'll be emptying bottles of vanilla extract and Listerine.

hey. don't give me that look. pain needs medication, dearies. i've got my share of pain at the moment.

the wee hours of january 3rd. i've been dry since... i guess the wee hours of january 1st. 48 hours on the fucking wagon is deserving of a pat on the bloody back, given my track record the past month.

it's good being away, though. the demons are still with me. want to put my fists through every mirror i see. but it's still better here than back at the fortress of inebriation... 'least for a few days...

30 minutes to midnight

It had gone from one of my most anticipated New Year's Eves in years to one of my most DREADED. With me waffling between doing nothing and doing... well, something.

New Year's Eve is one of those terrific holidays that really sticks single lonely people in the gut.

A lot of options fell apart as the deadline approached.

A quiet night spent locally with new parents Nick and Emma was relatively peaceful, right up until parenthood obligations conspired for me to get abandoned (again!) at just 30 minutes to midnight.

30 minutes.

A few desperate text messages. S.O.S.

A response. Some friendly faces on the Lower East Side.

Ran out. Hopped a cab to get downtown. Had to turn back around because I left my wallet at my apartment in my rush to get out. Never make it downtown in time. But I've gone too far to call it off.

Midnight strikes while I'm in transit. I watch the fireworks explode in the sky through the window of a cab. It is oddly... pitch perfect. Isolated from the world precisely at midnight, not forced to avert my eyes as couples lock lips. Just watching the city fly by, starbursts of fire blossoming in the cold dark night.

New Year's Day

Start over.