Snorting Coke, PMS, and How Not to Write a Book

Ah, yes! Here I am again! All 1.3 of you, up from my last positive estimate of 0.5 or thereabouts, be sad no more! Weep no more, my ladies! (or gents...but you get the callow picture).
I am going stark raving mad because the novel I was working on is trapped inside a hard drive of epically ancient proportions. This is tantamount to having your first born child trapped inside a cave somewhere with absolutely no way to get at them. The lack of writing is killing me, as is the entire situation. If I do not write, I slowly go insane. I am working on a screenplay, which is only helping marginally, and have enlisted a variety of help. Thus far, it appears that much more work will be needed, but I am confident that the book will be retrieved and months of hard work saved. Otherwise, I may be tempted to throw myself off the top of the Sears building. My, it's so high up here, Auntie.
I am also PMSing. The landlady of Bipolar Proportions is back from the hospital, which does not help with the PMS. I had a wee hope that she might stay there, or perhaps be escorted personally to the psychiatric wing, but alas, no such luck. She is back, and being more snarky. For awhile she was being kind, thus prompting me to hope that she might have adjusted her medication, but now we are back to My Angry Aura Needs to be Radically Adjusted Like Now but Gee, I'll Just Never Admit It 'Cause I'm Too Old To Admit I'm Seriously Whacked. I can feel this woman's vicious vibrations from a mile away. Yes, it's time to move, my wee, fairy folk!
As Oprah would say, we are not victims! Of course, this makes me look callow AND callous, but I was actually concerned she was feeling dizzy and had to go to the hospital. The cruel side of my nature simply wished she would decide to move in. Hey, I never said I was perfect.
In the meantime, cheese, chocolate, and reading everything under the sun is also helping somewhat. Last night I took out from the library's pretty nifty video collection Saint Elmo's Fire. Don't ask me why -- what a cheesy slice of strangeness! -- but not a bad little flick overall. Ridiculous, of course -- I cite the "Demi Moore calls up Judd Nelson and tells him that she's being forced to do coke lines with Arabs who won't let her leave their hotel room" bit -- such a typical problem for most post-college grads -- but the film is endearing nonetheless. But how weird to see these 80's films in the 21st century and to wonder God, do people really wear those clothes? Apparently so, my little octopuses!
I can feel my biorhythms failing to biorhythm, but that's OK. I feel like I am going to shoot myself out of a cannon if I can't write soon, although soon I will have far less time on my hands, thank God. Work = good. Unemployment = slow, sad, torturous hell. Especially if you are Type A. According to Women's World magazine, I am Type A! Gee, I never woulda guessed!
I wish you all stars to wish upon, suns to warn you, moons to howl at, and plentiful chocolate to munch on before a toasty fire. Bring the marshmallows, lose the guilt, and contemplate simpler times.
God bless.

George Bush, Anti-Depressants, and My Scary Brain

There is nothing more to say other than my blood sugar levels appear to be crazed these days. Ah, these narcissistic, navel-gazing days from hell here in the 21st century! Everyone runs around amped up on anti-depressants, and everyone looks like hell in these days from hell. Or does everyone feel like hell? Anyway, just days from hell and all that. I can't really stretch this commentary any further without risking some sort of psychic injury to my already feeble brain.
My landlady (The Woman of Paranoid Proportions) is much nicer since we Had It Out. It made me feel a helluva lot better, anyway. I still feel like I need to move, since my hypersensitive nature is generally hypersensitive no matter what I do to tame it. Meaning I put more meaning into events than I should. Ah, to feel like an ass, as well as hell. This is the way the world goes, unless you are Pamela Sue Anderson. She always looks well, but that is the exceptional by-product of looking like a Damned Barbie Doll.
I may go to a comedy improv show tonight. Then again, I may not. I am kicking myself for not asking this woman (with a car) earlier, all because I am TOO GODDAMNED NICE. It's a long story involving not wanting her to have to drive too far. Then, in the privacy of my room with the Horrific Orange Shag Rug, I kick myself. But beating yourself up for being human grows tiresome, and this year I am trying to retire from that, no matter How Bad I Fuck It Up. If we were anything but human, we wouldn't fuck it up, but alas, we are mere homo sapiens. And you know what, kiddies? Maybe that's finally enough for me.
Ah, traumatic insights at the local library. In the "Teen Room", no less. These computers are far easier to access than the ones in the "Adult Area", although I worry about pedophiles lurking around in here preying on thirteen year olds. If you think it doesn't happen, think again, my rare, sanguine lovelies. Now I sound like Craig Ferguson, and I recently decided he's a buffoon. My latest obsession is Brad Sherwood, who looks like he might be easier to hang out with and enjoy a simple cup of coffee. Although God knows lately I am a motor mouth and do not need caffeine. A harness and some Xanax, maybe, but not more caffeine. Kerchoo and Kerblah!
Yes, lately I have been reading the aptly titled Potatoes, not Prozac and getting nifty eating ideas. Nifty eating ideas are so very nice. Protein, avoiding hidden sugars, why antidepressants don't necessarily solve the problem of your lurking depressive state, and how to remember to save a book EVERYTIME you work on it so your twelve year old computer doesn't tank creating multiple problems for you. Another long story.
But I remove the weapons, the ones normally used to beat myself into smithereens and say, along with the Beatles, "It's Alright da da da da da da..." You get the picture. If you think my brain is tiresome, try delving into the mysteries of the entire Republican administration!
Speaking of which they are now subpoenaing records from GOOGLE users. How glad I am I normally YAHOO, not to be confused with OLE, YODEL, or SWISS MISS HOT COCOA. God, can we say, Scary Government, Hard Times And Then Some? Geez, maneeze. What does George Bush do at night, anyway? Stroke his white cat with a long, taloned finger and whisper lovingly into his ear about new ways to screw over innocent Americans, all in the name of G.I. Joe Justice? Puleeze. I mean, seriously. Very scary.
The man needs some serious loving. Or a long night spent disco dancing with what remains of the Bee Gees. I'm sure we can come up with many ideas for how to save him, and all of us, with what Remains of America. America, Can You Hear Me? Papa, Why Don't You Love Me? This must all be an unconscious ploy on his part to Win George Bush Senior's Love. Yes, that sounds about right.
I must go, and thank all 0.3 of you for reading, and that one lonely guy for always winking at me on the bus. You get the picture, people.
God bless you.

The Times They Are a-Interesting

Yes, life is a big fat steaming turd. There is no other way to describe it than this. Currently I live with the Widow of Paranoid Proportions in a semi-haunted Victorian home in a room with a ghastly orange shag rug, the kind last seen in 1973. It is not easy to be me, my kiddies, yet your lament, the soulful one you emit from the depths of that cavernous realm (more void than vid, cupid than cubed), is no different. I don't know what "vid" means either, but hey, it's all just them words, kiddies!
Yes, life is a bitch. I am incredibly anxious because my ancient computer crashed, leaving me without a book to work on. My book is the only thing that gives me purpose, a sense of peace, and the illusion that there is more to life than twisted families, ugly carpets, absolutely no money, and other sad tales best told by an Irishman holding a beer in a pub. Ah yes, where I would like to be! In addition my sister-in-law is possibly the world's coldest and meanest woman -- this specimen of humanity has acted like I am a big fat steaming turd since first we met. I am going to see her on Saturday evening, woe is me, and will promptly imagine that she is really the Reverend Al Sharpton or, more helpfully, one of the TeleFuckingTubbies. The purple one that bounces gently under marshmallow skies laden with rocking horses. You know the one I mean! Irishmen very deep into their cups have sung THAT one, too.
So writing this blog is abating some of my anxiety, although not much. There is nothing good about my life lately. I mean, nada and niente. I am living in a town I can't stand, with a woman who is almost as scary as my parental units, and I have absolutely no money to do absolutely anything whatsoever. To say it sucks is an understatement. It would all be fine (whine whine whine) if I could just write my bloody BOOK, because without that I will, very slowly, yet with complete inward clarity, go completely off my rocker. I mean, nuts and all that. INSANE. You know, BANANAS. How strange that we equate that mental state with fruit, but nothing in life makes any sense if you think about it (and please, for the love of God, do not).
The one good thing is that I have cable TV. Yes, Cable TV! It soothes me so. Also in my house is a strange little butt-kissing Narc of a guy who kisses up to the Landlady from Hell and who last night made a very weird comment to me about my chosen nocturnal hours (i.e., when I finally lay me down to sleep). I was like, hmm...and this is your business because? Yes, I'm hypersensitive, but little Mr. Buttkisser probably thinks that he's doing The Landlady a favor by keeping tabs on me. Paranoid Me, yes! It all goes round in a tidy circle, interlaced with shiny little knives.
Speaking of knives, I accidentally BENT one of the landlady's, who keeps tabs on HER cutlery like the crown jewels of London are embedded in there somewhere. I promptly had an anxiety fit that screamed for Xanax. I do not believe in antidpressants for myself after two scary attempts to try them out, both of which made me feel like I was wading through The Sea of Cotton Wool. Andrew Solomon's interesting and seemingly well-researched book The Noonday Demon depressed me, however, because Solomon is a proponent of drugs. In fact, some of the case studies in his book took so many drugs I wondered if that's what God had in mind. I mean, should human beings be walking medicine chests? Is that really safe? But hey, that's just me, folks.
I must go. This keyboard hurts my fingers, and attempts to write in the library with some disks failed miserably. We pray, we look at our options, we hope for better times. For us all here on Planet Happy.
Yes, let's keep laughing in our sea of miseries. For those of us in 'em. And whatever you do, stay away from poems like Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold. That guy was more depressed than anyone.
God bless, and much redress.