Mental Fitness.

So during the time I was away, not writing this blog, I happened to discover that


I've got brain problems.

And when my room mate (who is like my wife at this point) upon returning home finds me, yet again, by myself during daylight hours making a sizable dent in a bottle of gin and chain-smoking on the couch, joylessly watching Tyra Show reruns (such woe!!) while feeling really really bad for myself - suggested what my mom has been saying for years

"you should go to therapy."

(Its harder to be all like "OH WHATEVER MOM" when your friends say it...)

I decided, yea, maybe I should. And I mean, unlike sopping up whiskey with your cerebellum, its not going to kill me. Furthermore since I am one of the lucky few who actually have health insurance, I can get my brain worked on, like, for free!

No wait, wait..

I can work on my own brain.

Right?

I shouldn't be so flip about it...I just find something about the whole idea of therapy fucking annoying. Well its not so mysterious. What I find annoying is that NYC offers up a myriad of ways for its inhabitants to display shockingly unpleasant levels self-involvement. So you strive to avoid being completely overtaken by your own ego (or risk becoming a frightening species of gorgon only found in New York), and then the first thing that comes to mind as a sure-fire panacea when you start seeing red doors and wanting to paint them black, is spending your money to essentially force someone to listen to you talk about yourself.

It just annoys me. About me. And I'm going to talk further about it, on this blog, which I write, about me.

Perhaps I am loosing this battle.

So battle lost, I have started "seeing someone."

Everyone says it's important to have "reasonable expectations". I guess that means, for example if I were a lunatic who was seeing gigantic hob goblins with fangs on fire everywhere, I shouldn't hope to eradicate the hob goblins entirely, but perhaps turn them into more petite, benign goblins. Fiery goblins you can live with. Goblins not on fire.

But I'm having a hard time continuing this venture. I don't think I'm really all that interested in not being upset. And some part of me thinks the whole thing is a big snake oil wholesale operation. I don't know...I'm just trying not become Artax in the Swamps of Sadness...you know what I mean.

there is some shit in my room

Last night was fun.

I started "packing. " It's going really well. I found my portfolio of drawings had some how been placed on the floor in the basement and now they are all water damaged and wrecked.

bye artwork.

(actually, full disclosure i stupidly sold this one for 25 bucks to some girl, she said she was going to frame it...i hope its still alive somewhere.)

I guess now I have to make more.

I'm just sad... I wanted to have those drawing to show my kids that will never exist

in case of their possible existence

Anyway that was fun, so I bought an overpriced bottle of vodka and watched "Make me a super Model" for a while and then after I was a little stumbly I decided it would be a good idea to start packing my books and cds.

It was the best idea ever.

I broke off all my finger nails and found all my old sketch books and photos and scripts which instantly make me start crying even when I'm sober as they represent the time in my life when I wasn't a professional squanderer of potential.

I love making myself cry over the "bigness" of my problems.

THEY ARE THE BIGGEST PROBLEMS EVER. FUCK YOU!!!

*door slam*

Three cheers for weeping profusely. I am convinced that's why dudes die so much earlier; a lack of hissy fits will kill you.