You Don't Know What It's Like

I Can Dream About You

Only in Dreams

Act 4: Fell in Love with a Girl

Fell in love with a girl on the last day of doing extra work on a movie shoot.

Completely improbable that I would have ever met her. Or that she would contact me based on a few minutes of small talk and me handing her one of my business cards. Or that she ended up being more amazing than I could do justice to with my infantile command of words. Or that we ended up connecting as much as we did and it escalated despite the fact that she was in a long-term relationship...

More probable: that it ended abruptly.

You might find this hard to believe if you read this space regularly, Constant Lurkers, but I have not felt this emotionally wrecked in years. My bedroom is usually overly warm and tonight, sleepless, I am shivering. I suppose it might be seen as a gift that I'm still capable of feeling this level of emotion about someone. An awful, awful gift.

It should be some small measure of solace that it wasn't explicitly ME that was rejected but the timing. It is not. Tonight, I take solace in nothing. I'd take solace in the sleep I'm failing to acquire. I haven't had a decent night of sleep in days. I'd like nothing more than to close my eyes and never wake up.

Oh, boo hoo. Malice is bellyaching because he cared about someone. And now he's writing a fucking blog entry about his feelings. What a solipsistic piece of shit. Ladies and gentlemen, watch as this hapless wonder mourns over all that was and all that could have been.

Wow. I am simply spectacular at failing at life. So much potential. Or so they used to say.

Look away now.

Doom Hearted

Avoiding failure is not the same thing as achieving success.

So last night, I achieved failure.

Now I'm sleepless.

I am rotten.

I am not a good person.

Please take this and run far away from me. I am tainted. And happiness and peace of mind were never meant for me.

And All That Could Have Been

Missed a few days. Apologies. The holidays. I've been preoccupied.

Don't read this. Don't read into this. What I mean to say is, this is an inadequate source of information. Oh, now it's awkward. (As opposed to before when it wasn't awkward.) This is what happens when you try to address an invisible audience.

I am trying hard to shake this feeling...

Christmas. Christmas weekend. That should be fun, right? You've all probably been too busy to read this blog -- which is good because I've been too busy to write it.

Do you know how sometimes --

Nevermind.

I like spending holidays with other people's families. It's so much less complicated.

Have a safe weekend, world.

Distraction Industrial Complex

I was listening to The Nerdist podcast recently and Chris Hardwicke was sharing this theory he has about the popularity of these little gaming apps. The idea being that so many people are unhappy lately, these mindless games offer a way to distract people from their own thoughts.

This is exactly how I've been using these apps.

Puzzle games. Word games. Tower defense games. You can get all sorts of free games for your smart phone. Games you can play while half-paying attention to the television. It is comfortably numbing and an obscene waste of a lot of time. But sometimes you need something like that get you through a rough patch of living.

We are lost.

Dehumanizing Malice

My mind is clearer now.

Over the years, I've grown colder. I don't bleed the same way. I'm better at concealing emotion. Or killing it outright. I can be heartless.

So when something happens that reminds me I'm a human being... it fucking hurts.

Letting go is something I've been working on for a long time. I've improved but it's not always easy. Something hurts, I still have the instinct to hold onto it. Transfix on the wound.

I should have had a great time this weekend. Which is to say, element for element, this should have added up to a great weekend. Saw some good movies, hung out with some good friends, did some impromptu potluck cooking and won a flip-cup tournament at a holiday party. I enjoyed these things... and still, I was haunted.

By what? By something that seemed to go well. By something that, at least, didn't seem to go badly. But it is my unique gift that I can take something that went well and turned it over and dissect it moment by moment until it becomes something tragic.

Jesus, lately this has become Self-Flagellation Central.

Avoiding failure is not the same thing as achieving success. At a certain point, success involves risk. At a certain point, avoiding risk becomes the same thing as avoiding success. But all of it takes such a toll...

This doesn't have to be this difficult. Maybe something just touched a nerve this past week. Reminded me that I'm capable of caring about something that's not career-related.

Lest We Forget

(See MI4 IMAX, it is so good.)

Christopher Hitchens Has a Posse

Christopher Eric Hitchens
April 13, 1949 – December 15, 2011

Christopher Hitchens has a posse.

Watch This Guy Eat a Chalupa

Uxorious

I'm the last person who should be consulted in matters of marriage—or what's needed in a healthy relationship—but it occurs to me that uxoriousness is not the best trait.

I suppose that the right set of dysfunctions might complement each other to the point of creating some kind of blissful, long-term equilibrium. No doubt there are certain women who would enjoy or even prefer the uxorious man. That aside, I think that any relationship needs a proper balance of give-and-take. In most cases, I think that uxoriousness leads to resentment. Resentment leads to fear. Fear leads to the Dark Side...

I've got a lot of married friends at this point—but I don't know any guys I'd describe as legitimately uxorious. Sure, jokingly perhaps, when permissions need to be granted for staying out late or doing some activity, but I don't think of any of my (current) friends as uxorious. Nor should they be.

I think the uxorious man is more commonly found early on a (first) marriage. Or on the arm of some insane GOP candidate. It either fades or it becomes a mental condition.

Superiority Complex

Currently, I am in no state to feel superior to anyone. But honestly, some people are just born losers.

Okay, that sounds judgmental. And the definition and parameters of the term "loser" is going to be subjective. I'm not suggesting I'm the most socially adept person but I can get along with a wide range of people. I can carry on a conversation and, in even some of the most awkward situations, convey the illusion of making a connection. In many cases, I can perform an uncanny impression of being a human being.

So it can annoy me when some people utterly fail in social settings.

Failing is human. I've failed spectacularly in many social scenarios. But I'm always trying to learn from those mistakes. I'm always trying to be better.

But there are some people who are tragically charmless. They may have friends but their friends are mostly losers, too. And they will be doomed to live out the remainder of their lives in that narrow little world of loserdom where lonely people go to die. Because they suck and nobody enjoys talking to them. I only deign to talk to them and feign interest because I possess empathy and I am such a fucking nice guy.

All right, preemptive damage-control: if you're reading this and you KNOW me, THIS BLOG ENTRY IS NOT ABOUT YOU. I am most likely talking about people you don't even know.

Everything's All Right

Pew-Pew Girl (Jihye Yuk) says, "EVERYBODY CALM DOWN."

The problem with using this blog as a means to keep track of what's going on in my head is that it is not a precise measurement. People who've known me for a long period of time understand this. People who haven't known me as long or who aren't as familiar with how the blog works can get a little concerned.

People have been GETTING concerned lately and contacting me about it—and I appreciate it but stop!

It takes some effort for me to write a blog entry. Sometimes I've got to dig deeper to make it happen. Vent things that are troubling me for whatever reason. So I guess if your only image of me is developed through reading this blog, then I must seem like I'm on the verge of snuffing it. All you're getting is me purging.

This blog isn't a cry for help. It's a tool for blowing off steam. I'm sorry if it makes you excessively anxious. You don't have to read it. I appreciate everyone's concern. If I need your help, I'll ask directly. Aside from that, I'm fine. Pew-Pew Girl is fine. These are hard times for a lot of people.

Weekend in the Hamptons

When you don't have any storage space, it's easy to look like a hoarder. That's not an excuse either because I could better utilize what space I possess. My failure at this results in obnoxious things like not being able to find the book of stamps I purchased months ago, on a night when I need one goddamn stamp, which means I'll need to actually stand in line at the post office tomorrow just to mail a fucking envelope to the IRS. Or I could just stay up a few more hours, pulling my hair out as I turn my room upside down.

I had a vision of my future that seems to drift further and further away each year. It is increasingly difficult to live on promises and potential. The past few months/weeks, it feels like I've been wandering the wilderness trying to come up with a new way to make this work. "This". This life. This lifestyle. This alignment of things I need in order to remain functional and sane.

There is a parallel universe where the past 5 years worked out differently for me. Where everything fell into place when it needed to. Where I'm writing an entirely different blog entry from the Hamptons right now. I would like to borrow some money from that universe.

This week, December murders forth. I'll waste money on more stamps because I guess keeping track of a book of stamps was too much responsibility for me.

Watch This Guy Eat Fried Chicken

Year of Champions

Bleak week of entries here on Misanthropy Central, I know, I know. Thirty-something crisis. Go tell it to the marines. Something therapeutic about creating morbid animated gifs out of beloved childhood icons. Be thankful I couldn't find an appropriate picture of Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Daffy Duck or Bugs Bunny—one of them would be in the bathtub committing suicide above.

December can be a trying month. Taking stock of everything I needed to accomplish in the year. Everything that didn't materialize. I was on the phone with my accountant and the IRS this week, setting up an installment plan for the taxes I owe. Apparently, "freelance" is a code-word for "unemployed".

2011 was supposed to be better. 2012 needs to be better immediately. I need to turn this around. I will turn this around. I will make this work.

Face in the Crowd

It sucks to network when you are powerless. Yes, this is the week of Misanthropy Central where we wallow in failure. When I am sucking at life, I do not feel like meeting new people. Or old people. Or people. I've a hard time conjuring up the energy to reframe my struggles in a positive light. I don't want to be seen. I'd rather remove myself from the population until I can get my affairs in order.

I want someone to be familiar with my work without having to look it up online.

This is not an ego thing. For my career to function on a basic level, my work needs to achieve a certain level of visibility. Sure, there are a lot of screenwriters who've been paid very handsomely without any of their scripts actually getting greenlit. I'm not even there. In my 5 years doing this professionally, I've failed to land any Open Writing Assignments. Which is the big reason I shifted focus to creating new original work.

And still, it always turns into this interminable waiting game.

What's worse: in my head, I always thought, "It's all just a matter of time..." Recently, the thought has turned into, "What if it *isn't* a matter of time...?" That's one thought I cannot entertain. To me, that would be death. Life would be nothing without this dream.

Guns N' Roses to be Inducted in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2012

Guns N' Roses, The BEATSIE Boys and Red Hot Chili Peppers! That's a show I'd like to see.

It's all over the wires but I like the Rolling Stone coverage. While they're a band that's become popular to ridicule, Rolling Stone still recognizes GNR's impact.

Question: Is there a chance in hell that Axl and Slash can get it together and reunite for this show...?

2012 *is* the end of the world, after all.

The Success of Others

Bitter. Yes, I can easily succumb to being bitter. It doesn't help, it doesn't feed, it doesn't inspire... but it's honest. It's an honest feeling that I can own up to — and in a way, feel better that I'm not spitting lies about it. I won't pretend that I'm above being fucking bitter.

When you're down and out, it's hard to look up and see other people enjoy success.

Facebook is filled with bragging. Come see my new show! Check out the great job I just landed! Look at my amazing kids! Pictures from my incredible vacation are up!

Oh, but if the reminders were only relegated to Facebook...

Seeing people I know in TV shows, or commercials, or magazines. Catching up with people over the holidays and hearing about all the brilliant promise in their careers and lives; people with kids younger than me who are more successful.

Of course, I'm talking about people I used to know, or faintly know. Former friends who have been demoted to acquaintances or frenemies or exes. I would not begrudge their successes if I knew I were on the right track. If I had my shit together and my career were on schedule. There is nothing worse than comparing the progress of your life/career with other people. It can drive you crazy.

Other people's successes can serve to highlight your own failures. They can be an indictment of your life and your dearth of accomplishments. It's not their fault... and yet somehow it is. And then it's time to take a bath in self-loathing.

Not exactly the most fruitful year of my life. Ultimately, the poorest year. But again, maybe it's too early to judge. The things that were started this year could pay off yet. Over a longer arc of time, could this year still be redeemed...?

The Use of Hanging

English lesson for today: HANGING

The past tense of hang is typically "hung" when talking about an object on the wall.

Last night, he hung a picture on the wall.

When talking about a person being killed, however, the past tense is "hanged".

Last night, he hanged himself with a belt while staring at the picture on his wall.

Everyone knows this already, right? So, we don't have to go over this again? Cool. Now you're prepared to talk about my death when I'm gone.

Whatever happened to the man of tomorrow?

Saturday I was at a special screening of Steven Spielberg's WAR HORSE, flipping through a copy of TIMEOUT before the show started... and I damn near had a nervous breakdown. Paging through a copy of TIMEOUT is a fantastic way to remind yourself how much other people are doing and how little you've accomplished.

How much work have I created in the past 5 years that no one will ever see? Does it matter how brilliant some of that material might be? Does it matter how much I've grown as a writer? It's all trees falling in the woods with no one around to hear them. I've got a whole forest of trees that have fallen without a sound.

What I've got to prove is a burden that grows greater every year. Every month. Every minute.

Comparison is a terrible motivator. It's the worst form of violence against yourself. It encourages abject impotence when it's fuck time. But even without comparison, that nagging voice whispers

What have you been doing? What have you done? What are you going to do?

It's demoralizing.

That critical voice in my head is the cruelest. No one is meaner than the voice that echoes in my skull.

The persistent thought is that I want to hide from the world. I don't want to be seen. Profoundly ashamed of the lack of any evidence of what I've worked on in the past 5 years. I used to think this was all part of "paying my dues" to the universe, but it's so much worse than that. This is Sisyphus rolling a boulder up a hill for eternity.

I *envy* people with regular jobs and regular careers. People without a deep, burning dream they're driven to pursue beyond reason. People with 9-5s who look forward to holiday bonuses and vacations to nice places. People who worry over the future of their growing children more than themselves.

And still. Despite the past 5 years collecting some of the darkest days of my life. I can't give up the dream. I'm past the point of no return. I'm in too deep. Like fucking Chumbawamba, I can't stop getting back up again, even though it gets harder and harder.

O, December, Where Did We Go Wrong?

Here we are. The final month of 2011. Really ending on a high note, aren't we? (The royal we.)

I don't really feel like venting about all that was and all that could-have-been with this year. The only question that matters -- the one that keeps banging on the door -- is, "Where do we go now?"

Sort of makes me miss last December. Whatever dramas I was dealing with back then seem almost a luxury now. And there was so much hope for what THIS year would yield...!

The promises you held, 2011. How you said we'd make it through. Didn't quite. Fell apart. Where the fuck were you?

Tonight I was brushing my teeth with a new tube of toothpaste and it occurred to me, strangely, that the last time I used this particular brand of toothpaste was when I was dating some girl a few years ago. I remembered the peculiar twist of the cap and the peculiar way the paste froths. This fucking tube of toothpaste took me back to memories of living on the Upper West Side, and the fleeting excitement of dating this new girl, and the general feeling of promise in the world and with my blossoming career.

Funny.

Over a longer arc of time, this particular period of my life will make more sense. I will look back upon this period and laugh at where my head was at. I will think, "If I could only send him a note from the future, just to let him know how much better it all gets..."

I'm not really venting. I'm just admitting that I don't really know what I'm doing. I am trying hard to correct this.