I need to start blogging again. I need to write more. I need to take charge, goddamnit, and say something interesting. Meanwhile, here is a photo of me at one with the rocks. I am grossly fat and I hate the way I look. I have an eating disorder. All I eat for dinner is pizza and red wine. It’s sorta sad but sorta predictable. I want to be more of a person in ways other than physical. As in, oh, you’re not fat, there’s just more of you to love. BULLSHIT. The fat pushes the love away. Blah blah blah freaking blah. But okay, here I have made a blog post. The first in centuries. So maybe that’s a damn start.
Archive for the ‘Blah Blah Blah’ Category
Cannot sleep. Persistent anger gnawing at my neck. Deactivated my Facebook accounts. Considered deleting this blog altogether. My ideas of professionalism are so at odds with anything others consider to be acceptable. Sick of feeling like I’m the one who’s wrong when I most certainly am not the one who is wrong. I really have no place trying to make any place in polite society. I will not be made mock of any longer. Tried so hard this year to make headway. Thought I had gained ground. Cannot even be sure anymore what “headway” or “gained ground” would mean. I’ll just stick to reading books and doing crossword puzzles and growing older and more alone. Alone is where I am meant to dwell and I should stop trying to fight that fact and just live it to the hilt. Other people will always be a disappointment to me because I will always disappoint people. I suppose I ought to be ashamed of this post. But it actually feels good to type it out in black and white. Maybe now I can get some sleep but I doubt it.
So nice to have you on my side. So nice to have you, an actor, an Academy Award®-Winning Actor for playing a famed murdered gay man, on my (an actual real homosexual sex-having gay man) side. Sooooooooo nice. Thank you for speaking on my behalf and for including me in your big Hollywood yet all-encompassing all-accepting liberal world of equality for all. You won’t be happy until every homo is married, will you, Mr. Penn? So nice. Here’s a suggestion — why don’t you, Sean Penn, marry a homo and see how it works out? You managed to survive being married to Madonna for a brief stint so surely you’re man enough for the task. Divorce your lovely wife, marry a homo, and get back to me on just how wonderful it is. Elsewise, kindly stop trying to shame people who have legitimate and strong personal religious convictions to just chuck those convictions out the proverbial window. Unless you, personally, Sean Penn Academy Award®-Winning Actor, can guarantee each homo a husband in every pot, I’ll thank you kindly to stop pretending the answer is so simple.
Mr. Piven, it is time for you to shut up. Eat some crow, eat some dirt, eat a huge heaping steaming ovenful of humble pie. Anything but sushi. Shut up, go away. I really thought that by now you would have gone away and dropped this crass ludicrousness. But then, you are little but an ego driven void, needful of attention you have done little to deserve. Look at your career. On Ellen you played a loud-mouthed egomaniac. On Entourage ditto. The character in Mamet’s Speed-the-Plow is just more of the same. You can call it acting. I call it the constant walking of the untrained bull mastiff that is your ego hoping it will shit in the gutter and someone else can clean it up. It’s so heartwarming to read the same utter bullshit about you every day on some internet site or other. You blather on, poor little you, foresaken and misunderstood, desperate to prove something that if it were actually true, you might be slightly embarrassed to air publicly. You’ve proven your point. The point that for you, constant media attention is more important than integrity or work ethic. So sorry that daddy never found you interesting enough to touch you down there or even the most undiscerning and adventurous priests never placed their cold holy hands under your choir robe. But, please, have your publicist order you up a puu puu platter of dignity, humility and reticence and enjoy it heartily as you gaze into your mirror eating out your very heart. Then, call me, and we’ll plan the 2009 Mercury Poisoning Telethon hosted by your ego — which, I’m sure the world will not be shocked to discover – can also sing, rather well, and rather loudly, and will soon be releasing an album of self-penned songs.
I was doing great this morning. I convinced myself I was fine. And I felt pretty normal.
No odd reactions or symptoms.
Until lunchtime really. And then it started with the dizziness. No shaking but this tingling feeling on my scalp, my neck feels tight I have pressure in my ears and a slight headache.
And my limbs feel watery.
I’m not panicking. I’m doing my useless breathing exercises.
I already canceled tonight’s biofeedback because I just don’t feel I could get there and back. I canceled tomorrow’s cholesterol blood test because I don’t want to fast tonight and I don’t feel like getting up early and frankly I cannot deal with anything anymore.
I see the psychopharm tomorrow. However, I’m now pretty convinced these symptoms are something else entirely. Probably neurological. My teeth hurt and I’m not kidding. Whatever the psychopharm recommends I will not be taking it. I’m going to ask her what else she thinks this could be. And then I don’t know what I’m going to do. I may just leave town after Friday although I can’t go to my parents’ this weekend because my brother and my niece and nephew are staying there because my brother’s wife’s mother died and the funeral is this weekend.
I honestly don’t see how these symptoms could be psychological or anxiety-related.
So there, that’s how I am.
Pissed off and cranky when I had started out so well today.
I feel like an alien in my own skin.
Maybe there are people who can handle this sort of thing.
I am not one of them.
And, proving just how perfect I am for the lead in the spring musical at the asylum, after I put down in words how I feel, I start to feel better.
Second day of no klonopin. The shaking is not that bad. It’s more of a vibration. But I feel a panoply of outré sensations in my head and neck and inside my itching innards. I know this is not anxiety. I know it’s not the klonopin. I know there is something medically wrong with me. Unfortunately, I don’t know what kind of doctor to see or what questions to ask. So I’ll just keep on going until I snap. That should be amusing and I will finally fulfill my dream of entertaining at least a few fun-starved folks.
Oniomania. I don’t know if it’s a real condition or not. But I’ve been thinking about this sort of thing a lot lately as I continue to pay down my credit card and other debt. Especially on days when I am perusing design or fashion magazines. I’m skimming through Wallpaper* magazine today. I shouldn’t. I ought to have it wrenched from my feminine fingertips like the Salvation Army wresting a wino’s whiskey from his booze-addled grasp. For I get a twitching in my ticker that is like a devil’s curse. Sleekly packaged European haircare products give me shivers. Lithesome louche nineteen-year old boy/men in tailored togs stare out from the pages into my swishy soul and offer me all there is to be had. Where is the cog inside that makes me want, want, want pretty things? And where is the pill that quells the desire?
I still have to compose my reviews of the Broadway shows I saw on Saturday and regale you with the thrilling details of my birthday but I didn’t want to ignore you completely before I get to that so here is something I scanned from one of the fantastic 1960s gossip magazines which my friend Gail got for me a while back. More to come.
Ah, the old days when I used to live like a rich swish for some many months of the year in the heady and glamorous yet tawdry and ridiculous world of Fire Island Pines. The boys have begun their weekend treks now that it is May and someone with a secret identity has started a blog. Check it out over at Pines Punch and leave a comment for Parker Pines and encourage him on his new endeavor. He’s really a peach. Meanwhile, I share a favorite photo of mine from my old days living on the beach. No, that’s not me in the photo. That’s a young and delightful man with whom I was most foolishly and ridiculously wig-over-heels in unrequited love. Poor fella, didn’t know a good thing when he saw it!