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January 12, 2006
Previously... Next time...
With each passing day, a truth strikes home with greater power: I need to get a better job. I need to get back to school. I need something, and often I don't know what it is I need.
A depressive nostalgia overtakes me at times. I remember a time, long ago (around ten years), when I was much happier than I am now. In a way, I find it amusing to consider just how much happier I was when I was in high school - before I was hit with brutal force in the face and testicles by what I have grudgingly come to accept as reality. Sure, I have matured considerably by facing and accepting the world, but as the same time I feel I am regressing. It is an uncomfortable shell I crawl into every time I put on the blue vest and adopt the mantle of slave droid, but it is no more comfortable to slide out of the shell and attempt to go about my day.
Even the two or three nights per week I spend singing to the small, apathetic crowds do little to appease me. In fact, I begin to believe some nights I'm in front of an audience whose members are all on experimental psychic laxatives. Perhaps I just need larger apathetic crowds.
Then again, perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I have no exterior life. Once I remove the blue vest and egress through the sliding doors, more often than not I drive immediately to a poorly-constructed house where other members of my family live... and my options in this place are:
On the infrequent days when I actually leave the poorly-constructed house for destinations other than the slave droid facility, it's to go shopping - often for fresh action figures and/or video games. Yes, I agree with and therefore repeat my previous words: I have no exterior life. Pizza parties? Beer bashes? Drug binges? Wild orgies? None of the above. Not even so much as a date with a pretty girl.
Perhaps it's morbid, but I tend to fantasize lately about violent death, both for myself and for all humanity. I personally find this odd - I feel my fantasies should involve a more hopeful future, especially when my fantasies concern myself: public readings of a teaser chapter from my next world-sweeping novel, sharing a stage with fellow rock stars in front of fifty thousand roaring fans, media introductions of the new line of action figures I helped design, finalizing the recording of yet another comedy album, bringing legal action against any number of supermarket tabloids, and supervising the production of the motion pictures based on the previously mentioned novels. Why do I tend to endure blood-chilling violent dreams rather than visions of blissful success? Am I actually becoming the psychopath that other kids in school labeled me in third grade, or has reality molded me into said psychopath?
I suppose if and when I do meet with success, I will learn the truth.
Jax Mandrake