This guy gets it.
Jim Norton: “The deeper the pit, the more humor you need to dig yourself out of it.”
I wonder if this connection works in reverse — can you be emotionally fine, but then become depressed from being funny?
Way down at the bottom of the page, you’ll find a dedication that reads “For Skattie.” Skattie was my friend Scott Vice. He was pursuing a Ph.D in Clinical Psychology, specializing in childhood psychological disorders, at the University of Denver.
Scott committed suicide on July 29, 2002. He was 37.
Open your eyes, your vision unfogs to morning light. Transition from dreams to consciousness.
What day is it? Slow realization: Monday.
Claw the air with knurled fists. Moan your anguish to an uncaring universe. “Why, God!” But there is no God, at least not this morning.
Get up. Go to work. Hurl yourself onto the freeway. Run through the concrete maze, Rat. Run, Rat! Run!
The first phone call of the day stings dully, like the lash of a whip against a scabbed, callused back.
Crawl through the morning, towards the morsel of rancid cheese that is your lunch hour. It’s recess in the school of smothered dreams.
Sit at your desk. Stare at the monitor. Excel spreadsheet. Back away, into your mind. Scrape together the dry, crumbling remnants of your humanity. Scatter them with an angry sweep of your hand.
Crawl through the hours, scrabbling blindly in the shadow of the spectre of unemployment that looms overhead. Crawl faster! Don’t you feel its hot, fetid breath on the back of your neck? Faster!
End of day. You leap towards the exit, to freedom. Get into your metal box, lurch homeward in the necrotic light.
Thursday! So close now. The weekend! Working, working for the weekend.
Hold on for one more day!
Just hold on!
Feel weirdly down lately. I’m pretty sure everything is OK, so there’s no external reason.
Ate seafood soup with rice noodles at Pho #1. It was really good and I ate the whole thing. Vietnamese soup is highly restorative.
I can’t seem to ever feel refreshed, in these late-summer weeks. I drink a lot of cold water, sparkling water, soda, nothing helps. I eat cold watermelon — nothing. It feels like being short of breath, inhaling deeply but unable to take a really satisfying, full breath.
Maybe if I split a watermelon in half and stick my whole face into it.
I am hung over.
I don’t get hangovers easily. Two large (4 oz) gin martinis will almost never make me feel like shit the next day, but a third usually will. Twelve ounces of 94.6 proof gin — this is never, ever a good idea.
For many months I was like Neil Diamond in The Jazz Singer, when he gets fed up with the L.A. “scene” and his studio recording sessions are shitty and he takes off on his motorcycle — his BIKE! — and just like wanders the earth and grows facial hair, and ends up singing at some shitty biker bar in the middle of nowhere.
That was me, except for the L.A. “scene,” the studio recording sessions, the BIKE! and the shitty biker bar gig. I got the facial hair though, sort of.
Hay Guise! I made a BLOG! And it’s for “cool” people only, which is why only three people will ever read it. Yeah!
I don’t have any of my old content from “Edward Sung Dot Com” here, because it’s all about making a “fresh start” (I totally accidentally typed “fresh shart” there), and not at all because I can’t figure out how to import the entries.
This new blog will be weird and angry and sad most of the time, but once in a while will feature something of general interest. That’s the game plan, anyway. I mean assuming it doesn’t just languish for a while and disappear abruptly one day, like most things I do.