Friday, September 7, 2018

TRYING TO WRITE A REVIEW


I hate everything.  That’s my new mantra.  I think I need a therapist but when I get a little extra money I’m ecstatic so I’m not sure about the therapist thing.  Money is not the root of all evil and money does motherfucking buy happiness.  You know when I’m happy?  When I have money.  You know who gets a lot of money?  Therapists.  I’m over it.  I’m so frustrated with the universe right now.  Fuck.  My buddy emails me his wife needs reviews written for her book and since I’m a huge fan of her work, first reading her articles in New York Magazine (you can find her articles here: Mandys Articlesand I've read her book (UnWifeable) AND I also love supporting fellow artists,writers etc., I’m committed to doing this. 

I’m having one of those fucked up days, however, that began with me getting overwhelmed from the jump.  I awoke to the “Ripples” alarm sound from my iphone at 10:45AM and hit snooze twice.  The alarm was set in order to attend to my car moving duties, which are militant regimens of egregious alternate side parking assigned to the Brooklyn neighborhoods to generate revenue for the city (Assholes).

Boy, if you can’t get up for 11:00AM.  That’s what I was thinking this morning when I was groggy and dragging myself in my Adidas track pants and flip flops passed Nostrand Avenue down a few blocks by the late night liquor store over to my parked 03 Camry.  But you know the real me hates anybody who conforms to capitalism (aka gets up early) and particularly when said capitalists look down on night people such as the aging senile dick of an attorney that I work for.   When you go to ask a question about work, he responds with snarky sarcastic questions, “what do you think you’re supposed to respond with…” and I’m thinking I'm asking YOU for fukks sake, and also you don’t pay me enough to think and frankly I don’t give a shit. He can actually be okay, I just work really hard and burn out quick.  I digress.  Part of my frustration with today is I have some big items that I have to take care of.  Rather than just start doing one of the things, I end up shutting down with a paralysis that causes me to do nothing.  So I’m excited to write my friend’s wife’s book review because writing leads to more writing and will at least get me started on something.  Any writer will tell you there will be a million obstacles in your way before you actually sit down to write like the bathroom needs to be painted or the cat needs to be scrubbed in a Lawrence Welk bubble-bath or you need more hazelnut in your coffee cake or whatever.  Hours of this can go on before you actually start, if at all. 

In my elation of landing this assignment, I go to get the book which I do remember seeing despite the fact that I recently moved and I don’t know where a lot of things are, except I can’t find it.  I actually go back out to my car (which is now conveniently parked across the street) because there are random boxes still in the car from the move and I could quite possibly have randomly put a book I had in my apartment, back in the car in a box.  I rifle through the boxes.  No book.  I go back to my apartment and start looking in weird places like the refrigerator and closets and in cabinets in the kitchen.  I can’t find the flipping thing and I know I saw it.  Now my mood begins to plummet because this one task was going to be a catalyst into other productive things!  This was going to rescue me from the pit of despair!  I can’t seem to focus lately and I’m not sure if I have ADD or ADHD or just have pure hate for things.  It could very likely be from lack of sex and over-working myself.  Yep.  Working for the man and no sex'll kill ya.  Not enough creative work and a lackluster work situation could drive anybody nuts.  Actually, it's a vampire blood-sucking, soul crushing day job.  It's only part-time, but still.  Then I go from those thoughts (which are true and quite rational) to:

Why can’t I ever make enough money?  Why can’t I get work in the arts?  Any time I’ve tried to work at a gallery it seems they either want an unpaid intern or a director.  There is nothing in between.  It’s as if there never was an assistant director position on the face of the earth, or any galaxy, ever in the universe.  The few listings I have seen require a Master’s degree which is plain bullshit.  Why is everything so frustrating?  and I want a Master's degree for fukkkkk.....sssss.... sake.

All these thoughts barrage me in lieu of the missing book.  I enter the pit of despair, but Billy Crystal and Carol Kane are not there cheer-leading my mis-adventurous tirade of storming the castle.  Then I have a meltdown.  A full-on, punch something, yell and then cry meltdown-to-immediate-depression.  My friend texts that it’s easy to get depressed.  It’s a depressing world and seems there are more douchebags than nice people and that he wants to adopt a dog and move into the woods.  This cheers me up some or at least validates the shittiness of it all.   Finally it dawns on me to ask my roommate.  I might have actually lent it to him.  Yep.  He has it.  Somewhere between the meltdown and the realization about the roommate, I stop to write this.

No comments:

Post a Comment