Sunday Bloody Mary Sunday
This is where it gets weird. As much as I want to sit down and write my situational comedy masterpiece, I feel like I need a little warm-up. I don’t want to pay for internet service at this coffee shop. This is actually one of the few times I’ve ever tried to write in a coffee shop and I gotta tell you, I’m not a big fan. I can’t smoke, for starters, and there’s so much going on, I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to concentrate enough to get anything real done. Sitting here and doing this is no problem because it’s basically bullshit to kill time. It’s like calisthenics, a little PT before the real event. The good news is I brought my good Sony headphones so Death From Above 1979 is drowning out the world music/soft jazz that’s being piped into this shop. So, I’ve got that going for me.
Now, I remember why I drank so much in San Francisco. Writing makes me want to hurt myself. It used to be something I did to make myself feel better, a way to make sense of the madness inside my head. Now, there’s all this pressure and if I don’t write, I end up wasting a huge opportunity. I’ve got to get out of here. Out of this place where I can do no right. What am I so scared of? I want so badly to break through and spin this shit into gold. Capture some of that leftover angst from my days as a self-styled poet and try to make something funny out of it. Funny. That’s what’s so funny. All I really want to do is burn it all down.
Okay, I can do this. It’s not that big of a deal. I’ll write my spec. It’s going to be fine. I can do this. I just need a good idea.
You know what it is? It’s the same thing I’ve dealt with my entire life. It’s this ridiculous idea that I’m always on the outside looking in; I’m not one of the cool kids and this makes me want to tell everyone to fuck off, I don’t want to be part of their little clique anyway. This inevitably works – they all fuck off and I’m not part of the little clique. This leads to me realizing that I’ve made a huge mistake and that I really do want to be a part of the clique. Of course, by that point, it’s too late and they all think I’m some kind of disturbed retard for being so weird about everything. I don’t know why I do that. It’s like with my job now – I feel like I don’t know how any of them feel about me. It totally freaks me out. Maybe I’m just too intense or something. People don’t know what to do with me. I never get any of their jokes. I don’t know what the hell they’re talking about half the time. I’m smart enough – I mean, I do the job part of it right. But, I get so weird about the personal politics and whatever. All I’ve ever wanted was someone I respected to take me under his/her wing and show me the way, you know? Give me some guidance and re-assure me that I’m not a total fuck-up, let me know that with my talents and brains, I’ll for sure make something out of myself some day. Instead, I just go around with this fucked self-image, alienating the shit out of people, making jokes no one gets, hopelessly trying to figure out the puzzle that is inter-personal relations. I suck at it.
Iggy Pop now – Sweet Sixteen – like a salve for the soul. Something angry and raw, songs about girls, seeking and destroying. Maybe I should consider a career in the music biz. I’d be really good at that, I bet. I love the rock. Rock’s all about feeling weird and isolated and alienating the shit out of people. It’s why it exists. From its roots in the Delta when it was songs about killing your old lady or getting strung up by redneck crackers right through to now – rock is all about being fucked up. Nothing touches me like music. I could live without everything else, I think, except music. It would suck not to be able to read or write, but it’d be a hell of a lot easier to deal with as long as I had some music.
I was watching HBO On Demand the other day. I wasn’t really looking for anything particular, just kind of letting the little intro thing play in the background and there was this song that’s part of their whole On Demand advertising. Maybe you’ve seen it – it’s the one where Tony Soprano walks out of his house and there’s giant block letters in his yard spelling Sopranos. Larry David runs by a set of giant block letters that spell Curb Your Enthusiasm. They have one for Deadwood, The Wire, all of their original shows. Anyway, the song that plays is one I’d never heard before but I thought it was so beautiful, so moving, I just started crying right then and there. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and I don’t know why it upset me so much. That’s the kind of effect music can have on me. I’ll be fine one minute and then I’ll hear some song and it’s like somebody punched me in the stomach. No one should be this sensitive. I’m so fucking sensitive. I try to act all tough and macho and shit sometimes, but really I’m just a crybaby. My feelings get hurt too easily and I feel sorry for myself all the time. It’s retarded. It’s definitely one of the things I’m going to deal with in therapy if I ever go back to therapy. It’s fucked up.
I need a smoke. Not being able to smoke when I write is bullshit. My girlfriend wanted some time in our apartment by herself to get some stuff done, so I came down here. But, shit, man, it’s like Grace Paley said – one of the main reasons to become a writer is to be able to smoke on the job. At least, I think it was Grace Paley who said it. It could’ve been someone else. Still, the point is valid.
Okay, I went to smoke and it’s colder than shit outside. I like the cold weather. Everything seems more serious when it’s cold. The cold brings out some kind of animalistic survival instinct in me, man versus nature and all that. I especially like the cold weather here in the city – everybody wears black and we all just look cooler in black. It’s the official color of NYC. You go out on the streets and it’s just a sea of black. It’s awesome.
Here comes success/here comes success – sing it, Iggy. It’s right around the corner, right? Here comes my new car, my big house, my financial security. It’s there for the taking. Just have to find a way to lay my grubby, un-motivated paws on it. Then I’ll be set. I’ll be ready.
Jesus, am I going to be poor and under-employed for the rest of my fucking life? I can’t believe I’m still doing this shit. I can’t believe that I’m going to be starting over AGAIN in just a couple of months. What a pisser. This time, I need to decide what it is I really want to do and go for it. Take the lumps and go for it, even if it means starting at the bottom. I know I want the money I’d get for writing a sit-com episode but I don’t really want to be a sit-com writer. I don’t know what to do. I love the biz and all, but there has to be something more meaningful out there. I can’t just sit here and blog every day. It’s ridiculous. Not that I shouldn’t blog but I really need to figure out what to do with my life. God, I feel like I’m 25 again. Staring at the abyss, wondering how close I can get to the edge before I just fall right over. I’m so stupid. I don’t even know if there is a job out there for me. I’ve been kicking around the idea of going back to college and I don’t even know if that’s such a hot idea. What happens when I blow it again? Then I’m back in debt and square-oned to boot. I’m going to make myself throw up. I swear to God.
How do they do it? Normal people. Am I really that lazy? It can’t just be that, can it? Maybe a lack of self-discipline is my biggest problem. I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW! I should have that tattooed on my forehead. God forbid I should ever have any real problems.
Now, I have to take a whiz and the bathroom here is out of order. What the hell? Does that mean I have to pack it up and go home and pee and then come back here? I paid the six bucks for internet access for the day and it looks like I’m going to have to go home and pee. I don’t know if I’ll be able to leave once I get home again. I knew I shouldn’t have had this giant coffee. Damn it. Oh well. I can hold it for a little while longer. I wonder how much more cleaning my girlfriend wants to do. I just want to smoke some dope and go see Narnia. That sounds like a good plan.
I don't feel very funny today. Maybe it's the weather or the fact that I've moved on to Cat Power for my listening pleasure. Either way, I think the day's shot when it comes to writing my spec today. I feel much more like doing this than I do trying to map out some kind of situation comedy. I'm only sporadically funny, anyway. I don't have any idea where to start. What can I do? I should take a class or something. Hell, I don't know what to do.
I have to pee, man. This blows. I guess I'll pack it up and go home and then come back. I can blog all day. Shit, this is easy.
Went home to pee. Lost my choice spot by the window but whatever, I have a seat. Now I just have to sit here and kill some more time until it's time to do something else. Maybe I can convince myself that it's not really that important I get a script this season. Tell myself that I didn't want to do it anyway. I don't know what it will take to pull this off. I can't believe it's this hard for me. I wish I had a partner. That'd be so much easier. I work well with others. It's true. When I have someone else to push me, I get so much more done. I respond well to the pressure.
Hell, I don't know if that's true. I have a bad habit of freezing up. Even when I have partners, I still freeze up. Then, I piss off my friends and they don't want to work with me anymore. It's happened before. I wouldn't freeze up this time, though. Not that anyone wants to work with me, anyway. I'm assed out on this deal. I'm assing myself out but assed is assed.
Cat Power's version of "Psychic Hearts" by Sonic Youth is pretty awesome. Sounds like a cover one of my friends would've done if any of them could sing. Just a chick and her guitar and one bad-ass song. That's what it's all about. "Losers/assholes/suck all the luck" Truer words have never been spoken.
Found out the name and title of the song on HBO On Demand that I like -- "Change" by Tracy Chapman. Just heard 30 seconds of it on iTunes and it killed me all over again. I don't know what it is about that song. I'm such a girl.
Well, it's official. I've managed to completely waste another Sunday doing nothing but bullshit blogging. I'm so proud of myself. Why try and do something that would actually pay me when I can do this? Fuck it.
Okay, time to go get loaded and go to the movies. Until the next time...
Now, I remember why I drank so much in San Francisco. Writing makes me want to hurt myself. It used to be something I did to make myself feel better, a way to make sense of the madness inside my head. Now, there’s all this pressure and if I don’t write, I end up wasting a huge opportunity. I’ve got to get out of here. Out of this place where I can do no right. What am I so scared of? I want so badly to break through and spin this shit into gold. Capture some of that leftover angst from my days as a self-styled poet and try to make something funny out of it. Funny. That’s what’s so funny. All I really want to do is burn it all down.
Okay, I can do this. It’s not that big of a deal. I’ll write my spec. It’s going to be fine. I can do this. I just need a good idea.
You know what it is? It’s the same thing I’ve dealt with my entire life. It’s this ridiculous idea that I’m always on the outside looking in; I’m not one of the cool kids and this makes me want to tell everyone to fuck off, I don’t want to be part of their little clique anyway. This inevitably works – they all fuck off and I’m not part of the little clique. This leads to me realizing that I’ve made a huge mistake and that I really do want to be a part of the clique. Of course, by that point, it’s too late and they all think I’m some kind of disturbed retard for being so weird about everything. I don’t know why I do that. It’s like with my job now – I feel like I don’t know how any of them feel about me. It totally freaks me out. Maybe I’m just too intense or something. People don’t know what to do with me. I never get any of their jokes. I don’t know what the hell they’re talking about half the time. I’m smart enough – I mean, I do the job part of it right. But, I get so weird about the personal politics and whatever. All I’ve ever wanted was someone I respected to take me under his/her wing and show me the way, you know? Give me some guidance and re-assure me that I’m not a total fuck-up, let me know that with my talents and brains, I’ll for sure make something out of myself some day. Instead, I just go around with this fucked self-image, alienating the shit out of people, making jokes no one gets, hopelessly trying to figure out the puzzle that is inter-personal relations. I suck at it.
Iggy Pop now – Sweet Sixteen – like a salve for the soul. Something angry and raw, songs about girls, seeking and destroying. Maybe I should consider a career in the music biz. I’d be really good at that, I bet. I love the rock. Rock’s all about feeling weird and isolated and alienating the shit out of people. It’s why it exists. From its roots in the Delta when it was songs about killing your old lady or getting strung up by redneck crackers right through to now – rock is all about being fucked up. Nothing touches me like music. I could live without everything else, I think, except music. It would suck not to be able to read or write, but it’d be a hell of a lot easier to deal with as long as I had some music.
I was watching HBO On Demand the other day. I wasn’t really looking for anything particular, just kind of letting the little intro thing play in the background and there was this song that’s part of their whole On Demand advertising. Maybe you’ve seen it – it’s the one where Tony Soprano walks out of his house and there’s giant block letters in his yard spelling Sopranos. Larry David runs by a set of giant block letters that spell Curb Your Enthusiasm. They have one for Deadwood, The Wire, all of their original shows. Anyway, the song that plays is one I’d never heard before but I thought it was so beautiful, so moving, I just started crying right then and there. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and I don’t know why it upset me so much. That’s the kind of effect music can have on me. I’ll be fine one minute and then I’ll hear some song and it’s like somebody punched me in the stomach. No one should be this sensitive. I’m so fucking sensitive. I try to act all tough and macho and shit sometimes, but really I’m just a crybaby. My feelings get hurt too easily and I feel sorry for myself all the time. It’s retarded. It’s definitely one of the things I’m going to deal with in therapy if I ever go back to therapy. It’s fucked up.
I need a smoke. Not being able to smoke when I write is bullshit. My girlfriend wanted some time in our apartment by herself to get some stuff done, so I came down here. But, shit, man, it’s like Grace Paley said – one of the main reasons to become a writer is to be able to smoke on the job. At least, I think it was Grace Paley who said it. It could’ve been someone else. Still, the point is valid.
Okay, I went to smoke and it’s colder than shit outside. I like the cold weather. Everything seems more serious when it’s cold. The cold brings out some kind of animalistic survival instinct in me, man versus nature and all that. I especially like the cold weather here in the city – everybody wears black and we all just look cooler in black. It’s the official color of NYC. You go out on the streets and it’s just a sea of black. It’s awesome.
Here comes success/here comes success – sing it, Iggy. It’s right around the corner, right? Here comes my new car, my big house, my financial security. It’s there for the taking. Just have to find a way to lay my grubby, un-motivated paws on it. Then I’ll be set. I’ll be ready.
Jesus, am I going to be poor and under-employed for the rest of my fucking life? I can’t believe I’m still doing this shit. I can’t believe that I’m going to be starting over AGAIN in just a couple of months. What a pisser. This time, I need to decide what it is I really want to do and go for it. Take the lumps and go for it, even if it means starting at the bottom. I know I want the money I’d get for writing a sit-com episode but I don’t really want to be a sit-com writer. I don’t know what to do. I love the biz and all, but there has to be something more meaningful out there. I can’t just sit here and blog every day. It’s ridiculous. Not that I shouldn’t blog but I really need to figure out what to do with my life. God, I feel like I’m 25 again. Staring at the abyss, wondering how close I can get to the edge before I just fall right over. I’m so stupid. I don’t even know if there is a job out there for me. I’ve been kicking around the idea of going back to college and I don’t even know if that’s such a hot idea. What happens when I blow it again? Then I’m back in debt and square-oned to boot. I’m going to make myself throw up. I swear to God.
How do they do it? Normal people. Am I really that lazy? It can’t just be that, can it? Maybe a lack of self-discipline is my biggest problem. I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW! I should have that tattooed on my forehead. God forbid I should ever have any real problems.
Now, I have to take a whiz and the bathroom here is out of order. What the hell? Does that mean I have to pack it up and go home and pee and then come back here? I paid the six bucks for internet access for the day and it looks like I’m going to have to go home and pee. I don’t know if I’ll be able to leave once I get home again. I knew I shouldn’t have had this giant coffee. Damn it. Oh well. I can hold it for a little while longer. I wonder how much more cleaning my girlfriend wants to do. I just want to smoke some dope and go see Narnia. That sounds like a good plan.
I don't feel very funny today. Maybe it's the weather or the fact that I've moved on to Cat Power for my listening pleasure. Either way, I think the day's shot when it comes to writing my spec today. I feel much more like doing this than I do trying to map out some kind of situation comedy. I'm only sporadically funny, anyway. I don't have any idea where to start. What can I do? I should take a class or something. Hell, I don't know what to do.
I have to pee, man. This blows. I guess I'll pack it up and go home and then come back. I can blog all day. Shit, this is easy.
Went home to pee. Lost my choice spot by the window but whatever, I have a seat. Now I just have to sit here and kill some more time until it's time to do something else. Maybe I can convince myself that it's not really that important I get a script this season. Tell myself that I didn't want to do it anyway. I don't know what it will take to pull this off. I can't believe it's this hard for me. I wish I had a partner. That'd be so much easier. I work well with others. It's true. When I have someone else to push me, I get so much more done. I respond well to the pressure.
Hell, I don't know if that's true. I have a bad habit of freezing up. Even when I have partners, I still freeze up. Then, I piss off my friends and they don't want to work with me anymore. It's happened before. I wouldn't freeze up this time, though. Not that anyone wants to work with me, anyway. I'm assed out on this deal. I'm assing myself out but assed is assed.
Cat Power's version of "Psychic Hearts" by Sonic Youth is pretty awesome. Sounds like a cover one of my friends would've done if any of them could sing. Just a chick and her guitar and one bad-ass song. That's what it's all about. "Losers/assholes/suck all the luck" Truer words have never been spoken.
Found out the name and title of the song on HBO On Demand that I like -- "Change" by Tracy Chapman. Just heard 30 seconds of it on iTunes and it killed me all over again. I don't know what it is about that song. I'm such a girl.
Well, it's official. I've managed to completely waste another Sunday doing nothing but bullshit blogging. I'm so proud of myself. Why try and do something that would actually pay me when I can do this? Fuck it.
Okay, time to go get loaded and go to the movies. Until the next time...
posted by Guts at 2:25 PM
1 Comments:
sweetie--i wish there was something I could do to help you. i can try if you would like. i think you can do it. i believe it. but if you don't, it's not the end of the world. you are still smart and still kiley, with or without it. it seems scary--seems scary to me too. i don't know how the hell they do it. but i am here to try or bounce it off with you if you want. i know you can do it.
love you xoxo
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