Dec. 31, 2008
The year is up. Another year full of letdowns and regrets; chalk it up with the rest. Now, looking forward, what resolutions can I botch? What goals can I toss into the bin of the unattained? Which friends and family will I disappoint? And when will I catch my break?
Actors everywhere, the good and the bad, seem to at least have one memorable year, one where opportunities outweighed the disappointments. And somehow, someway I need it to be 2009. I've given out hundreds of headshots and spent countless hours in line at auditions and still have had years the homeless would put to shame. I work hard. I put myself out there and I'm talented. Something deep inside pushes me to continue, telling me I was born for this. I can't turn my back on it or myself. I need it to be 2009. It must be 2009.
Rejection, like water on gremlins, turns me into an ugly creature. I can only take so many before I'll be running amuck and causing havoc. My brother's suicide doesn't help. Moving out here with him, with someone who understood and cared. Someone who saw talent in me besides me yet threw in the towel with no explanation. That doesn't help. I can only focus on doing this for a little while longer. Please be 2009.
Aaron Stone
31
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Bloody Harry
Dec. 27, 2008
Blood dripped down my leg and I thought, 'too bad I'm not a chick.' If I were I could plug a hole with a sponge and the situation would be resolved. But instead I've got to play detective and figure out what’s wrong with me, because blood belongs inside, having it run down the outside of my leg is bad.
I eat like an ant's strength, three times my own size. And it shows. For years now people, including my doctor, have hinted toward my extraordinary appetite. "You may be able to out eat us Harold, but you sure as hell ain't going to out live any of us," my doctor says. So now, here I am with legions of warnings bouncing around my brain while blood drips to my sock. I'm in the grocery store at the time, buying what can only be described as elephant food storage and my socks seem to be my man sponge, absorbing but not plugging. At least we men only have one hole to deduce the origin of dripping blood. And hey, I'm already fat; I go to bed with embarrassment and shame every night. It ended up being nothing. Well, I should say it ended up not being serious. Any time you have blood dripping from your ass it's always something. Apparently, shitting three times a day and being Dumbo's older brother makes me susceptible to blistering, bursting hemorrhoids. Hey man I may be fat but at least I'm not a chick.
Harold
51
Blood dripped down my leg and I thought, 'too bad I'm not a chick.' If I were I could plug a hole with a sponge and the situation would be resolved. But instead I've got to play detective and figure out what’s wrong with me, because blood belongs inside, having it run down the outside of my leg is bad.
I eat like an ant's strength, three times my own size. And it shows. For years now people, including my doctor, have hinted toward my extraordinary appetite. "You may be able to out eat us Harold, but you sure as hell ain't going to out live any of us," my doctor says. So now, here I am with legions of warnings bouncing around my brain while blood drips to my sock. I'm in the grocery store at the time, buying what can only be described as elephant food storage and my socks seem to be my man sponge, absorbing but not plugging. At least we men only have one hole to deduce the origin of dripping blood. And hey, I'm already fat; I go to bed with embarrassment and shame every night. It ended up being nothing. Well, I should say it ended up not being serious. Any time you have blood dripping from your ass it's always something. Apparently, shitting three times a day and being Dumbo's older brother makes me susceptible to blistering, bursting hemorrhoids. Hey man I may be fat but at least I'm not a chick.
Harold
51
Monday, December 29, 2008
Parlor Tricks
Dec. 1, 2008
My therapist confronted me today. It's been nearly 3 months of dainty questions and blank stares and now the man confronts me. I march in that dark den twice a week, trying to make sense of my life and my marriage, trying to make sense of myself and my child hood, trying to find a common thread as to what's wrong with it all. And this man, this self-indulgent, haughty, high-hoarse scoffer confronts me. Some nerve. Somebody ought to confront him. How am I to make sense of things now? How am I supposed to get relief? Confront this man. Confront his chauvinistic innuendo and parlor games, his arrogant appeals and his rhetorical questions. Confront his ideals and penchant for mind games and manipulations. Telling me I'm to blame, that all these problems stem from me. Some nerve. Am I to blame for an abusive husband, a rapist uncle and a boss with wondering hands? Am I to blame for panic attacks that burst and burn in the most complacent moments? Am I to blame for a life given to me by some sadistic God who seemingly revels in tormenting me and watching me suffer? Am I really to blame?
He called me a sabotager, a malingerer and histrionic something, saying I am attracted to chaos. He belittled me and openly humiliated me, taking my money for three months only to attack me and label me like a criminal or psychopath. This man needs the therapy. This so-called expert needs the opinions. He needs to be locked up for emotional abuse. Think how many others he's victimized with his pointing fingers and slap-happy labels. I come to him for help, for attention and open arms and he does this. "You need to own up Delores," he says, "You need to identify what's really going on." You bastard. You're like all the other men who preyed on me and subdued and groomed me. You are no different and you will get yours.
Delores Singtha
38
My therapist confronted me today. It's been nearly 3 months of dainty questions and blank stares and now the man confronts me. I march in that dark den twice a week, trying to make sense of my life and my marriage, trying to make sense of myself and my child hood, trying to find a common thread as to what's wrong with it all. And this man, this self-indulgent, haughty, high-hoarse scoffer confronts me. Some nerve. Somebody ought to confront him. How am I to make sense of things now? How am I supposed to get relief? Confront this man. Confront his chauvinistic innuendo and parlor games, his arrogant appeals and his rhetorical questions. Confront his ideals and penchant for mind games and manipulations. Telling me I'm to blame, that all these problems stem from me. Some nerve. Am I to blame for an abusive husband, a rapist uncle and a boss with wondering hands? Am I to blame for panic attacks that burst and burn in the most complacent moments? Am I to blame for a life given to me by some sadistic God who seemingly revels in tormenting me and watching me suffer? Am I really to blame?
He called me a sabotager, a malingerer and histrionic something, saying I am attracted to chaos. He belittled me and openly humiliated me, taking my money for three months only to attack me and label me like a criminal or psychopath. This man needs the therapy. This so-called expert needs the opinions. He needs to be locked up for emotional abuse. Think how many others he's victimized with his pointing fingers and slap-happy labels. I come to him for help, for attention and open arms and he does this. "You need to own up Delores," he says, "You need to identify what's really going on." You bastard. You're like all the other men who preyed on me and subdued and groomed me. You are no different and you will get yours.
Delores Singtha
38
Sunday, December 28, 2008
A Sticky Situation
Nov. 17, 2008
Gumdrops taste like gumdrops as far as I can tell. In fact most things taste like the things they taste like. And this gumdrop, the one I'm chewing on, is no different than the rest. As I'm typing this and piling gumdrops in my mouth I'm realizing that we complicate things for the sake of complicating. Here I am, sticky fingers and all, pounding out an entry for no other reason than to write one, with nothing terribly important to say. And yet because of it, and because of gumdrops and the sticky wet fingers I locate them with, I really am doing nothing but making my keyboard sticky. My keyboard and my mouse. I hate it when my mouse is sticky and I hate having to clean my keyboard and mouse just for the sake of cleaning it; just for the sake of typing an entry with self-induced sticky, sloppy fingers. That is complication. To simplify would require dry, clean fingers with no gumdrops within an arms length. But instead, I get a dirty, sticky keyboard and Mick gets something to upload. If I had something to upload I probably wouldn't be so upset, of course I would have to upload it with sticky, dirty, nasty fingers and nothing to ease the irony but a bag of gumdrop tasting gumdrops.
Paul Kapp
47
Gumdrops taste like gumdrops as far as I can tell. In fact most things taste like the things they taste like. And this gumdrop, the one I'm chewing on, is no different than the rest. As I'm typing this and piling gumdrops in my mouth I'm realizing that we complicate things for the sake of complicating. Here I am, sticky fingers and all, pounding out an entry for no other reason than to write one, with nothing terribly important to say. And yet because of it, and because of gumdrops and the sticky wet fingers I locate them with, I really am doing nothing but making my keyboard sticky. My keyboard and my mouse. I hate it when my mouse is sticky and I hate having to clean my keyboard and mouse just for the sake of cleaning it; just for the sake of typing an entry with self-induced sticky, sloppy fingers. That is complication. To simplify would require dry, clean fingers with no gumdrops within an arms length. But instead, I get a dirty, sticky keyboard and Mick gets something to upload. If I had something to upload I probably wouldn't be so upset, of course I would have to upload it with sticky, dirty, nasty fingers and nothing to ease the irony but a bag of gumdrop tasting gumdrops.
Paul Kapp
47
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