7/23/99 - Y'know, I look pretty bad now.  I got myself a pretty lame haircut - it's too short all around, and with my stupid cowlick I can't do much to it unless I put some gel in it.  So I swallowed my pride and dipped into a little bit of gel this morning, so now I look like I'm back in 9th grade.  But not having a goat anymore makes my face look fat.  I feel like I should go on another crash diet just so I don't feel as fat without it.  Plus, I kept my long sideburns, so I definitely feel a little odd, since not too many people have got sideburns as big as mine with as little hair as I do and no beard.  I actually had considered getting a flattop when I got my hair cut on Wednesday.  Maybe I'm glad I didn't.  With a flattop and the "paratroop" pants I bought from Abercrombie, I'd look like I was back in 7th grade.  Everybody party like it's 1986!   Is that what people wore in 1986?  I dunno cuz I was wearing LaCoste shirts and corduroy shorts.  In retrospect, I'm amazed I wasn't picked on more often.

Brian S from an Insomniac's Lullaby e-mailed me yesterday, and I realized that I hadn't read his journal in about a week b/c of time constraints and because I still have his old journal site bookmarked on my browser, so I don't intuitively visit it.  So I printed out the last five or six entries yesterday and got caught up on it yesterday when I was waiting for the bus after work.  To make a long story short (a very unusual occurrence for me), he just sold a screenplay and is gonna be getting some bucks for it.  It's like one of his dreams just came true, since he, like 90% of the other English-speaking population in Los Angeles, wants to be a screenwriter. 

When I finished reading it, I just dropped it into the street like it was a "Dear John" letter.  I felt devestated.  It was not what I wanted to read after the pretty shitty conclusion to work yesterday.  To make it brief, Duc and I had a "talk" yesterday, which as I've been telling everyone I've e-mailed since then, was more like a "lecture."  Naturally turning it against myself, I felt like a complete fuck up.  So when I read Brian's journal, it was like another slap in the face -- here's someone from a similar situation (we both went to UCLA, lived in the same dorm, and both work(ed) in Downtown), but he's got his knuckles around the brass ring, and I'm getting talked down to by a midget.  Well, Duc's almost a midget.  I should be thrilled for Brian, right?  He's a good guy, even if he sleeps around a little behind his woman's back.  He's very generous and genuine, and I'm supposed to be the nice guy and feel all happy for him.  And in time, I will.  But not today.  Sorry Brian, it's nothing personal. 

So yeah, as you can guess, I feel like a big failure.  Like I'm failing at work, and I failed with Akiyo, and I'm afraid of failing at every big thing.  I'm never gonna make it big or be rich, and that'd be OK if I thought I could get the other things in life I really wanted.  But if I'm failing at the simple things in life, how am I gonna handle the complex shit in life?

I was ready to go incendiary when I got home yesterday, and I was relieved that Jenny wasn't home because it allowed me to have one of my ranting monologues.  It went a little something like this: "FUCK MY MOTHERFUCKING SON OF A FUCKING ASSHOLE SELF!  FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK ME!  GODDAMN IT, FUCK ME!  ALWAYS FUCK EVERY FUCKING THING UP!  FUCK FUCK FUCK GODDAMN ME, MOTHERFUCKER.  FUCK! (pick up pen and throw it across room). 

So maybe I need anger management courses.  I dunno, I never really take it out on anybody else much, do I?  I'm not like Lawrence Phillips, dragging a white girl down a flight of stairs and then smacking her around.  I just drag myself down and smack myself up.

I wanted to call Paula, but I know that my moods weren't what she needed.  Hmm, a guy to unload all his fucking problems on you?  Yeah, that ranks up there with half-inch dicks and a bumper sticker saying "Pat Robertson in 2000" as desirable traits in a guy.  And even as a friend, I wouldn't want to call her.  I dunno, I've put Nicole through hell a lot, and I'm way too reluctant to start that with anyone else.  I really don't want Paula to read this, but she has read this sorta shit from me before and she needs to be reminded that this side of me exists.

Things are easier for me when I'm depressed.  I feel like I have the answer, even though I am full of questions --> I am the Answer.  I am the fucking reason why.  <SIGH> The diversity of my emotions must wear out my brain.  Like shifting a Honda from 1st to 5th and then all the way back to 1st.  Maybe drugs are like a super motor oil or transmission fluid or shit like that, and they help keep me running until I finally break down.  I don't think I'll ever learn how to drive stick. 

And then yesterday I realized I ran out of Wellbutrin and I was too depressed to even think about getting more. 

Paula has so much more depth and intelligence and history than I do.  I feel really empty if I think about her, and what she is so full of and what I am so empty of.  And I'm not talking about shit.  If I was, then I'd be full of it, and she'd be empty of it, except about an hour after she eats McDonald's.  I feel like a pop culture brat.  Shit like MTV and E! makes life so simple; Here is the music, and the people, and, y'know, whatever that you should like.  And it's easy - you sit back and turn on Channel X and zone out.  There is no discovery.  The full life, or the virtuous life (as Lao-Tze or Mencius or some other long dead Chinese guy might have described it) is about learning and exploring and discovery.  Pop culture just shovels shit at you and expects you to eat it.  Maybe it's not all shit, but when you're being deluded with it, how can you tell what's worth anything and what's horseshit?

There are no absolutes and no cultural standards, so I guess I'm reflecting my own attitudes.  Objectively, Newsweek or the Offspring or whatever aren't better or worse than anything or anyone else.  But I think if you could take a shovel and dig a little with a lot of things, you'd find that it was just gilded, and there's nothing of value underneath.  And that's what I'm afraid I am.  But I've never been gilded with gold.  More like tin, and I'm looking for my soul.  And to get some, heh.

Maybe watching the Kennedy channel last nite helped put me in that mood.  I'm sorry, I meant. CNN.  No, MSNBC.  No, I'm sorry, Fox News.  <SIGH> What's the difference?  The same interviews with the same people and the same footage and the same replayed Katie Couric interview with JFK Jr. just reminds me of why I really hate culture sometimes.  It only numbs me to the Kennedy and Bessette deaths, as well as making me even more cynical about the media in general.  When I first heard about it Saturday morning and talked about it with my mom, I was kinda like, "Wow, that sucks for them and for the world." (<--Yes, my callow emotions on display.)  But now I have a hard time feeling terribly sad and sorry for someone with all the advantages in life.  The son of the most beloved philanderer and mediocre President in American history.  The stepson of the richest man in the world.  The nephew to one of the three or four most prominent senators of the last twenty years (as well as the fattest).  A monstrously powerful family, good looking beyond belief -- somehow the tragedy of it all escapes me a little.  If anything, I feel sorry for Lauren Bessette, who looks like she got suckered onto a plane with a guy who had the piloting skills of Captain Peter "Wrongway" Peachfuzz.

God, I feel grumpy now.  Too bad my pager's voice mail clears itself after 24 hours.  Y'ever play a recording of voice over and over again, like the sound of it is sweeter and more moving than anything you could hear in a forest, or a symphony hall, or on a CD?  Yeah?  Does it make you a psycho if you do?  I have a feeling a lot of people do it, but it doesn't make me feel any less juvenile. 

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