Blog Eat Blog World

I really haven't made much of this blog thing (obviously). After thinking about it for a while, I'm not sure that I'm really a blog person. It seems to me that these things are-- perhaps inherently-- a bit narcissistic. "Look at me! This is what I'm doing! Wheeeeee...." That's not really my style, I guess. I just don't talk about my life much-- although some of that has to do with the fact that I'm an agent for a secret government organization dedicated to destroying Tom Cruise-- but mostly because I'm a ridiculously private person.

Maybe it's a bit more than that, though. Maybe, if I told you what I thought about-- if I shared with you the jagged pieces of my smashed-up consciousness-- you wouldn't like what you heard, or it just wouldn't make any damned sense to you. People say that they'll try to understand all the time, but not many actually have the ability to try to see outside of their own Velveeta-like, prepackaged, ready-to-go ideas. If you tell most people that blue isn't really blue but that it's a square, they'll never even really try to see what you're saying.

Perhaps I'll figure out what it means to have a blog later. For now, fuck it.

Speeding Toward Nothingness

I don't really believe in much of anything anymore. When I was a child, I believed in things like God, a purpose in life, and true love (of course, I also believed in Santa Claus, the Easter bunny, and integrity in the Oval Office). However, it seems that the older I get, the less I believe-- and there isn't much left to believe in at this point. I'm thirty-something and I'll probably live for a while longer, but I'm already tapped out in the beliefs department.

What I seem to struggle with daily is the idea that there really is no reason for me (or anyone else) to be here. We human beings like to believe that we're somehow "special"-- that there is some sort of purpose behind our existence. With the loss of god many years ago came the unraveling of order in the universe and eventually the evaporation of any reason at all for my presence. I don't mean to suggest that things necessarily disappeared in that order-- they all faded together, it seems. They all walked off into the sunset, and I was left with nothing but my purposelessness.

Without purpose, things like motivation and discipline are hard to find. What's the point of doing anything, after all? I'm going to live and die just like the millions of people who have done so in the past and the millions that will do so in the future. Most of those who are already gone had no great purpose in life, and those who did make some sort of mark made it upon humanity-- and humanity ultimately will perish as well. Nothing lasts forever, and without permanence, there is no real purpose.

Whether they realize it or not, most people live for one thing: pleasure. It may appear that different people pursue different things-- some people seem driven toward money and power while others seek knowledge or enlightenment-- but these are all just varying means to the same end. In the end, what we're all really trying to find is a little joy... in what can be an otherwise meaningless existence.

Tom Cruise is a Fucking Moron

I don't really follow celebrity stories much because most of them just aren't that interesting (the celebrities OR their stories). However, I do have to comment on the ridiculous statements made by that dickless midget Tom Cruise regarding the proper treatment of depression. Tommy was apparently very crtical of Brooke Shields' decision to treat her postpartum depression with Paxil, one of the newer SSRI's used to treat major depression. Mr. Mapother (his real name) never went to medical school or even set foot in a college lecture hall (did he even finish high school?), yet he apparently feels that he's perfectly qualified to dispense psychiatric advice. He claims that there is no science behind psychiatry and that depression can be cured with vitamins. Tom-Tom, put the crack pipe down. The biology of depression and other psychological disorders has been studied for at least 50 years now. Carefully controlled clinical studies examining the physiological nature of these diseases and the effects of psychoactive compounds upon them are funded by federal governments, research institutes, and pharmaceutical companies all over the world. The amount of science and statistical analysis involved in these studies would make your little peanut brain explode, Tom. Do us all a favor and stop talking out of your ass on something you obviously know nothing about. Advising someone to take vitamins for depression is like telling someone who's on fire to sit down and have a nice cup of coffee. Now run along and find something else to do. Here's a suggestion: work on your acting. That wild-eyed speedball-infused expression that appears in EVERY SINGLE MOVIE YOU'RE IN is getting old.

http://www.petitiononline.com/Tomkat/

Vampire

There are some advantages to being an insomniac. One of the big ones that comes to mind is this: the world is a far more peaceful place at night. You can actually hear yourself think for a change. Gone are the tricked-out Hondas with the modified exhaust pipes and giant subwoofers in the trunk (I find myself wishing for a rocket-propelled grenade launcher whenever some soon-to-be-deaf jackass rolls up with his car thumping), the Harleys with their thundering twin-cam engines, the lawnmowers, the leafblowers, and the weedwackers. The little kids that are normally running around the parking lot or the swimming pool screaming at the top of their lungs have long since gone to bed, as have their oblivious parents who are usually busy chattering away on their cell phones about their sex lives or what they're having for dinner. Sometimes I think I must be mildly autistic because the world seems like a very noisy place.

Late at night is about the only time I even come close to approaching a relaxed state of mind. During the day I'm almost overwhelmed by external stimuli. I get irritated when the guy at Starbucks starts whistling while he's making lattes. The noise from the espresso machine as milk is being steamed grates on me, and the rapid grinding of a blender as a frappucino is being made sends me over the edge. I don't think this is normal, but no one will give me any Valium. So I spend my day becoming increasingly agitated until night finally falls, and the throbbing in my head begins to fade. The problem is that most of the world gets its work done during the day, and expects me to operate on its schedule as well. I'm supposed to sleep during the time I find most productive so that I can work when I feel least productive. I don't think I like that plan.

I'm not antisocial or hostile toward people and their activities (except for the idiots with the boom boom Hondas), but I do need my space and my quiet time or else I get really grouchy and start fantasizing about blowing people up. A lot of people are very loud and extroverted and live their lives for everyone to see, but that isn't me. It's not that I'm really shy or exceptionally lacking in confidence or terribly unfriendly; I just seem to live much more in my head than anywhere else, and it's not easy to get there when people around me just won't shut the fuck up.

Hmmm... maybe I am autistic.

Insomnia

I intend to stay up all night tonight. I don't sleep well anyway, and I spent a good portion of the day sleeping poorly in an attempt to recover from a little Saturday night debauchery. It didn't work. I don't know why the body loses its ability to tolerate alcohol as it ages, but I just can't drink anymore. I had two gin and tonics and four beers last night, and I woke up feeling like I had some sort of hemorrhagic fever. Gone are the days when I could toss back highballs like they were little cups of Kool-Aid. I suppose some might say that this is a good thing, but I take it as just another indication that I'm no longer young and brimming with vitality.

I found out last spring that I have an actual sleep disorder. This didn't surprise me as I haven't had a good night's sleep since the early 80's. After finally getting fed up with being tired all the time, I went to a sleep lab where they stuck a bunch of electrodes all over my body and expected to me go to sleep at 10:30 PM. I explained that I hadn't fallen asleep before midnight since I was a kid, but I would try. There's nothing worse than TRYING to go to sleep, but I did manage to drift away shortly before midnight.

During the six hours I was asleep at the lab, I got virtually NO deep sleep. Apparently, I "twitch" when I sleep. The name for this twitching disorder is Periodic Limb Movement Syndrome. (catchy, huh?) I've actually noticed my body doing this every once in a while when I'm drifting off to sleep. It's like I have a very short seizure and it completely disrupts everything. It's always been difficult for me to get to sleep in the first place, and when I twitch it just wakes me up again. So, this is what goes on regularly when I sleep, and why I feel like I've been run over by a truck when I wake up in the morning.

This is beginning to remind me of those long, boring medical stories that funny-smelling old people tell. I'll cut to the chase. I was prescribed a medication to treat this new disorder of mine. There was one problematic side effect of that medication: IT GAVE ME INSOMNIA. Every night I would find it harder and harder to go to sleep, until one night when I really needed to get to sleep I actually stayed up ALL NIGHT. Needless to say, I stopped taking that particular medication. I was prescribed a new drug, which actually helped me fall asleep. The problem with that medication, however, was that I found it difficult to wake up in the morning-- my alarm would go off for an hour before I would actually notice. This kind of side effect is a bit of a problem for those of us who must work for a living. Anyway, I no longer take any medication for my sleep disorder and have developed something of a distrust of the medical establishment. Lately I've been thinking that maybe I just need somebody to sleep with.

Jack Kerouac

The primary reason for starting a blog was to get into the habit of journaling, because journaling is supposed to beget real writing (whatever THAT is). You see, I'm supposed to be some sort of "writer person". For as long as I can remember, various people have been telling me that I'm good at it-- although I happen to believe that anyone who can think and speak should be able to write well (sadly, this is not always the case). However, I'm not sure I'm really a writer because writers WRITE (right?), and I don't do it very regularly or-- when I do write-- I don't do it for very long. One of the big reasons for this is that I'm severely obsessive-compulsive. I'm not kidding. I actually have OCD and it has had a tremendously negative impact upon my life for decades (yes, DECADES). It's not as bad as it used to be, though. I can actually take showers that don't last for hours and leave my house without checking the locks twenty times (sometimes it still amazes me that I can even leave the house), but anything that involves more concentration than applying deodorant or clipping toenails is difficult because of the incredible amount of CRAP that goes on in my head constantly. Unfortunately, this is not the only reason for my lack of productivity in the realm of writing. I'm also something of a perfectionist (no, this is not the same as being obsessive-compulsive). I'm not a true perfectionist, because I'm not really interested in making something that's perfect when I write-- I just want whatever it is to be GOOD. What happens is that I constantly re-read and revise as I write rather than plowing through something until it's finished and THEN revising. Writing is like music to me: it has a form, a cadence... a rhythm... and it also has character. Maybe I'm just talking about style and don't know it, but if that thing I'm trying so hard to describe is off or just isn't there, then I have to fix it or I can't go on. The result is that I never finish anything because I never really get started. I get stuck and frustrated and before I know it I'm sick of the whole thing and utterly disgusted with myself. So, in an effort to get over that self-defeating process, I'm going to do my best to use the stream-of-consciousness thing. From here on out, on this blog, don't expect things like paragraphs, proper punctuation, or even correct spelling. These things will be abandoned when necessary so that the writing process has a chance to continue uninterrupted (expect by those pesky voices in my head). I doubt that many people will be reading this thing anyway (who has time for reading these days?), but for those who might stumble across my little unkempt electronic journal, you have been warned.

First Post... Ever... Really

Getting a blog-- my own personal spot in cyberspace-- was far too easy. I think I clicked a total of three buttons and HERE I AM. Nothing should be that simple. There should have been a test or a background check or something to justify my presence here. Shouldn't I have to PROVE that I deserve to be here? That's the way life is supposed to work, right? Oh, wait... that isn't reality. That coke-snorting, Bible-thumping dumbass George Bush IS president, after all. In a world where a man who can't even pronounce the word "nuclear" wins the US presidency (TWICE?), Britney Spears is a top-selling recording "artist", and Tom Cruise thinks he can act, keep up with a 26 year-old woman, AND dispense psychiatric advice, I'll be damned if I can't have a blog. By the way, Katie, call me when you get tired of that freak.