I have officially lost my mind. My good friend Mike South put in a good word for me at a prominent adult company, I was given a career opportunity that involves writing, and after three days… I turned it down. I have been drinking every day since then, trying to figure out how I’m going to be my own boss and whether or not I deserve it. As Trent Reznor so eloquently says, “You could have it all… my empire of dirt. I will let you down… I will make you hurt.”
That’s how I feel. That’s how I’ve always felt. I’m an arrogant asshole. I feel I deserve the opportunity to command a piece of reality in the creative world. I have vision and feelings that transcend commonality, but I acknowledge that I am arrogant in the extreme. I probably don’t deserve anything past what anyone else deserves, except that I really feel I deserve it. Even the statement, “…but I acknowledge that I am arrogant in the extreme,” is a hedonistic and self-serving statement. Who cares if I acknowledge my own arrogance? And yet, the arrogance and drive is there. But the arrogance and drive for what? That’s the question.
I rail against my shortcomings. I rail against what I cannot change. I rail against love because I don’t feel I deserve it. I rail against hate because I deserve love. I rail against prejudice to the point of killing humor. I rail against anger that kills humor. I rail against anti-individuality and I rail against the constant “I’s”. I, I, I… what? “I” – nothing! “I” don’t even know what “I’m” doing half the time, except for pleading for a love “I” stab repeatedly for being false, undeserving, unreal and unacceptable. Doug doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going!
I swim through feelings of hurt and pain. I wrote a kind letter of resignation to my three-day boss, “I feel my time on this planet is better spent trying to be happy, even if I fall flat on my face…” I mean that. I would rather die face-down on Sunset Boulevard, in shit and stepped over by the trendy people on their way from Book Soup to The Rainbow, because I wouldn’t compromise, rather than live in the Hollywood Hills with a view of downtown Los Angeles feeling like a piece of shit because I did compromise. Because I didn’t follow my heart, no matter how I rail against my own self-esteem and what I do or don’t deserve. There are people my age that are not in porn whose intelligence far exceeds my own, and there are people my age still in porn who haven’t gotten as far as I have, and I feel all of it. I don’t begrudge anyone who thinks of suicide. It’s a personal choice. This world isn’t designed for the sensitive, it’s designed for the insensitive. For the clinical thinking and the opportunists. I’m not going to kill myself, but I don’t begrudge anyone who does. They probably feel it’s the only relief they have because they are just too sensitive for all of it. Is it selfish? Sure it is. It’s the last vestige of selfishness the selfless can afford.
I am arrogant, but not without a boat-load of fear and humbleness. I come from a simple people who break their backs to make a dime. I come from a humble people who trust and expect a person to live up to their word, but now I know it doesn’t work that way. Everything is blood inked into a contract, a piece of paper, and I’m lucky if drinking makes me feel better. I’ll be lucky to die an alcoholic rather than coughing and hacking and barely breathing due to some other physical complication. I’ll be lucky if someone will just murder me quickly.
It all seems dour, of course, but that’s because I feel I’m bleeding to death. My feelings are leaking through me and I can’t make it stop. Where is the tournequet when I need it? I need it. Right now, I really need it.