Nothing like starting the week with your heart racing out of control, pulse rate crazy, chest tight, head light, air short. I get these attacks now and then, for this is an anxious soul. Much of my life has been varied stages of chaos, despair, fear, some violence, both physical and economic. Thing is, these days are pretty good for me -- well, better than they've been. I should be able to relax and enjoy the love, positivity, and appreciation that swims over me from numerous sources. But for some reason, I can't. Too much happiness and stability make me edgy, wary, suspicious. When I was struggling for my life, I didn't worry about anxiety or dread. That's what was feeding me. Now when this shit surfaces, I'm unprepared, out of emotional shape, and this reduces me to a jittering wreck waiting for death.
Yeah, I'm kinda fucked up. But that's what you love about me, yes?
Part of this comes from the weirdo memoir I'm working on. I know -- everybody writes memoirs. But this personal volume is decidedly different, or so I hope. James Frey had to make shit up to seem interesting. I don't have that luxury. My stories are all too real, so fucking real that they still freak me out if I linger on them for too long. The other day, I told the teen about my month-long stay in the loony bin when I was 16. She'd heard some of it before, but she wanted more details. So I laid it out in full. The astonished look on her face lent me a clue about how that tale will be received. "Wow dude, that's fucked up!" she said. Yes. It was.
So there'll be no "churning out some of the best, most vicious prose on the Internet these days," as pal Tom Waston described my recent output. Maybe tomorrow. For now, I want a slice of Happiness Pie.
HAPPIER STILL: I'm not one to celebrate ads, but this Super Bowl spot is fucking hilarious, if a tragic reminder of the human veal crates so many lost souls must inhabit until they die or are fired. Laugh while you can.