"Amid the sufferings of life on earth, suicide is God’s best gift to man."

You can be sad as you want to.
No one can punish me like I do.



In youth, we are much more easily satisfied. With age comes an unquenchable thirst for things, a wanting which can slowly eat us up.
When I remember my first love, I recall feeling like I'd be happy as long as we were married, feeling like I would need nothing else. Eight years later, this sentiment is gone, although my feelings for him remain. I have found a new love, yet one which does not diminish the first, but this romantic love could never restrain a more mature wanting...the desire to be my own person and to have my own purpose. The people I love and my desired course can only coexist peacefully when they encourage my ambition. And to me, that is a true sign of their affection.
I have heard it said that "Ambition is the ice in the lake of emotion," and that may sometimes be true, but it is a dangerous generalization. If pursuing the goal of being the person you believe you were meant to be is selfish, then I don't want to be anything but. However, to me becoming this person, the best person you can be, is proof of love.
I now believe it is possible to be ambitious and still love completely.
I now believe that it is possible to be in love with more than one person at a time.
I no longer wish to marry.
"How time distorts things."

Lately I've been thinking about how conceited people are self-centered, but in their own way, self-loathers aren't much different. Both types of people make everything about themselves, whether inadvertently or intentionally.
Having a tendency towards self-loathing myself, I've noticed an uncontrollable, paranoia which comes in waves, the feeling that everyone hates being around me. Only recently did I realize that reading into every little thing, the slightest unintentional insult, a person's mere absence, reading into these things and making them about myself is self-centered. And as part of the reason I hate myself is my potent desire to not be one of those people who loves myself too much, this is something I hope to avoid in the future.

We are complicated creatures, but we must never cease our efforts to truly understand ourselves.

Three down...

I know I haven't written in a while.
Unfortunately, my Uncle Gary recently lost his battle with ALS.
I was helping my mom with this bowling benefit to aid my Aunt Tina in paying his left over medical bills. In the end she brought in about $5,000 which might not be much, but will come in handy.

I was also working on finishing up my latest screenplay, my third, Singing Swans.
It's all done now. I revised it, but of course there will be mistakes I can't see and things I can't correct until others have read it, but being that the subject-matter is kind of taboo on two fronts and that it's more sexually explicit than anything I've written before (although in reality, I used tricks to get around making it too dirty), I don't know how quickly my volunteers will get through it. It might be uncomfortable.

I'm to that point where I finish something and then I feel empty.
It makes me feel as if I have to start something else immediately or I have no sense of purpose, especially now that I'm done with school and don't have a job.

I applied for three jobs today and eight internships.
Beyond the scripts, there's always poetry, and music, but until I can make it on my own, nothing I do feels worthwhile.

I submitted Good Grief to the Nantucket Film Festival and Singing Swans and hopefully my next script, I'll submit to Austin.

I was also going to audition for Glee, but my brother was a real douche about it and so once again, I don't think I'll have the confidence to try, despite the best efforts of friends I don't deserve to convince me to do it.

Anyway, that's what's crackin'.

If anyone's interested in reading it, you're welcome to, but if you're really ageist or homophobic, I don't recommend it.

I'll share a bad poem I wrote at like 4am last night/this morning.

Why must I have a tender heart
So quick to take a bruise
Why must I find the truth in words
Others can refuse
Why must the ugly always distract
From the one thing I should see
Why isn't the pretty, the good, the praise
As much a part of me
Why is it only jabs and jeers
Repeat inside my head
Why have I built a wall which blocks
Whatever else is said
Why do you not all leave me
Beneath rubble of words I hear
I'm buried too deep and all rescue efforts
Now seem insincere