Holy Calamity, Scream Insanity!  

Tuesday, April 24 : 12:47 PM : 0 comments :
Don't you love it when people self-diagnose themselves? "A Pity Party for One," and yeah, that phrase is already trademarked (albeit not by me). I always hated self-diagnosers. I mean, you can always come up with some reason for why you're sick/sad/depressed. As long as you're working on yourself and aware of the big picture; you'll be okay. I never understood the role of drugs in people's lives. "Good" or bad drugs. I never really get sad; for brief moments, but almost never. I never cry or lash out in frustration -- barring basketball or video games.
"Manic" describes an increasingly restless, energetic, talkative, reckless, powerful, euphoric period. Lavish spending sprees or impulsive risky sex can occur. Then, at some point, this high-flying mood can spiral into something darker -- irritation, confusion, anger, feeling trapped.
-Bipolar Disorder, Web MD-
I'm the most even keeled person I know. Some friends have wondered why I'm so happy-go-lucky all the time. I never knew. Good diet? Fast metabolism? Easy life? Good friends? Being a FOB? Good parents? Being a twin? All those were answers and really, why worry about why you're constantly happy; it's probably better to dwell on the eventual sadness that's sure to hit. Right? Nobody's looking for reasons WHY they're happy; they're looking for ways/reasons to BE happy. I've always been happy or joyful and full of excitement for life. Even when life has superficially sucked.

So anyway, all of that cracked last week (or so); at least in the eyes of the people around me.. I was yelling, screaming, talking hyperspeed, reckless, crying, euphoric, spending cash like I minted it; and um, well, no impulsive risky sex. But that's by design; I fear procreation, always have, always will. Anyway, my friends and family were freaked out. Like super freaked out. If there was a list of things I thought I'd never do in life, one of them might have been "End up in the back of a police car when I'm the main perpetrator."

Everyone's been scouring the Net for reasons behind my crazy actions. They've sent in the A-Team, The (Air) Wolf, The Cleaner, Jennifer Melfi, Ghost Dog, Clarice Starling, and everyone else in order to figure out what's going on. They still don't know. Hell, I don't know. But everyone has been bugging out and worried. I mean, I've told them at various points this week that I'm ready to die, when I'm going to go, and what to do when I die.

By the way, I'm having the best week ever because I've seen all my friends flock to me to hang out -- and to figure out what's wrong with me of course. I got to go home to San Diego; eat carne asadas, eat boba, eat eat eat, and found the greatest movie theatre ever (in Encinitas of all places). I even got my latent cavity filled by my dentist. I got the tattoos I wanted. In three days in San Diego, I did everything -- and more -- I'd wanted to do and had planned to do this summer. Aside from surfing; which it's still too cold to do. But I have all the time in the world to do that too; once I can figure out how to correctly paddle with pipe-cleaner width arms. And yes, I've tried working out...

I don't think anything's wrong. If anything, everything is perfectly, triumphantly, right. I'll try to explain why I believe that's so; now that I (finally) have the time to properly blog -- people around me restricted my phone/computer/wallet access after each transgression and in an effort to get me to slow down and sleep.

I was blasting out texts/emails/blogs/phone calls whenever anyone turned their back on me; since I needed to communicate and my avenues were getting systematically shut down. Didn't exactly inspire trust in my caretakers when I'd slip the leash each time they showered, napped, whatever. Anyway, I'll return to that topic later.

I never felt like a "real" writer because I never had the need to have to write. I mean, I just blogged a lot. That's not writing. I was addicted to blogging and that was more for fun; but last week, amidst all this, I figured out that I need to write. Finally. And I'm unafraid to be a writer now, instead of a blogger. Subtle difference, but big to me. You know?
"I start to think and then I sink
Into the paper like I was ink
When I'm writing, I'm trapped in between the lines,
I escape when I finish the rhyme...I got soul"
-Rakim, You Know You Got Soul-
Still, if I can't explain everything that happened and why -- to myself or others -- then I'm open to suggestions. Even drugs. But really, D.A.R.E. was some seriously shit so that's my last option. I'm aware that these could just be delusions (of grandeur) or visions or something chemically imbalanced; but let me self medicate first -- by writing and explaining -- then you can Brazil me. And if all else fails; I'll turn to G-O-D before medication. And most of you guys know I'm an organized religion hater so that's some serious backup plan.

Anyway, thanks everyone. I know you care; now (I hope) you know I care; and remember, "Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires." Peace.
"I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.'"
-Kurt Vonnegut-





[click for archives]