Rejection of sentimentality amid an ever present lurking doom OR great big titties!

Friends, it pains me to write this, because I have to turn off the music. And It was a good song too. I just don't have the attention span to do two things at once. Unless of course those two things include drinking and swearing at the TV. In that sequence. Not very original, but I'm quite good at it and you tend to stick with what you know. Seriously, there should be a fucking award.

But I haven't been watching TV, as I've led my cable happily out to pasture. That is a poetic way of saying I took it out back and blew it's fucking brains out. And that is a bullshit way of admitting I didn't pay my bill. But my drinking has thinned out a bit, not drastically, but enough so that I don't need that previously refreshing warm-beer swig in the morning.

So my heart nearly exploded last week. Maybe it didn't, but it nearly did and I like to think of it that way. Very graphic, with a nice visual to go along.

I'm not so conceited that I'll bother boring you with the specific dramatic details of a recent “episode”, in spite of its apparent seriousness. But it seems my recent years of self-abuse (not a masturbation joke, but I'll do my best to work one in later) and overall apathy to my personal unhappiness has led to some recent health issues. Ugghhh. "Health Issues." Imagine: me! Sure, my bones have the tensile strength of a Cheeto, but that’s merely a character flaw. I never get sick, get the flu or a cold (hangovers don’t count), tend to heal faster than anyone I know, and am immune to cancer and AIDS (I assume). But over the past two years I’ve developed "anxiety".

I've started having panic attacks. Mild ones, last year. Then they got more frequent, and physically worse. I had some sort of said-“episode” on Feb 13 where I freaked out for no reason and my heart started beating around 170 beats for nearly three hours. A total riot. Lots of fun. Didn’t think at all that I was done for. Nope. Anyway, my stomach is slightly fucked at the moment, but will likely heal or be repaired surgically. So that had something to do with it. But come on, anxiety? Me? And panic attacks? I'm not an asshole (debatable), I can be pleasant where general kindness and decency is required-- but weakness disgusts me. Disgusts me. Completely. Sorry. I’ll leave you to work out on your own how that makes you feel. And now I’m one of you whiny cocksuckers.

So I've stayed in my little rut, my little very well-paying sort-of-doable-lets-me-live-in-a-nice-place fucking rut because of my own laziness, but I guess I never really cared enough to change, to get away and do the things that really matter to me and make me feel alive, or whatever the hell you call it. But this panic stuff, this utter common nonsense, it’s awful. It’s like some little scrap of what’s left of my soul is kicking me in the brain and the heart and the balls (“the big three”) and going, “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?! (They all speak English and are well versed in profanity). I think that’s what it is. This panic attack nonsense, an epiphany beyond the tangy surreal to the merely physical.

Have I subconsciously, almost in a comatose state led myself to believe that my life will continue within the soul-crushing confines of those dumb yellow walls and predictable-everything. What thoughts, what offensive predictable horseshit! Surely everyone feels that way about their shitty jobs or their current places in life. I’ve bitched and moaned about it dozens of times, that old fucking scratchy record. Like one of those toothless old geezers who’s realized he’ll be in that cranberry silo for the rest of his life, but then goes, “Meh”. Or, perhaps more apt, one of those horrid Cape Breton girls who, by the time they turn 25, realize they’re just slightly older that any of the other kids in the bar, and thus are relinquished to repeat the dastardly sentiment to everyone around them at all times, thereby hoping the decree will allow their peers and the general public to know that, even though they may not be 19 and “wild” anymore, they have at least graduated to that next all important chronological level of greatness, and that they are “too old for that” (“that” being any type of fun or anything cool ever; translation: “I’m a have me a baby!”) . None of that had anything to do with anything. I just hate those fucking people.

Bah, but everything I just typed can be dismissed as more panicky bullshit. I’ve got a little time off work now. So maybe I can get off my self-important ass and do something with my absurd little life. Make some more friends. Drink a little less. Make some effort. Give the stand-up comedy a try. Finish the pilot with my friend and finally write the best TV show ever. Reserve my disdain for only those who are rude and wear their collars “popped.” It’s all been said before. Oh yes, you’ve heard it many times. But now it’s a little different. Now, I have a doctor’s note that says, “Michael is fucked up. He will be away for a month.”

Let’s see what happens.

P.S. I promise, dear reader (assuming you exist), that the next post (likely during the 2nd quarter of 2009), will be much more positive. And by positive I mean really, really negative, but joyfully so! And now if you excuse me I have to go jerk off.