The Bloody Doors Off

Today’s action becomes tomorrow’s habit.

Chinese Fortune Cookie

Literally got that tonight.

Reminding me.

I promised myself I’d try to make this.

A daily.

Habit.

I wanna build this up like muscle memory.

That it would be unnatural not to write.

Even if it’s inane bullshit such as this.

This is really a lovely day. Congratulations!

Another Fortune Cookie

This one I can’t rationalize.

Sure the day’s been.

Alright.

Work didn’t come in until 6:30, and I know I’ll be busy next week.

The sun was nice.

Was it lovely though?

Yeah. I suppose.

But I had nothing to do with it.

So don’t congratulate me.

Thank Anubis or Odin or the bearded guy in the sky.

Doesn’t matter.

I’m not particularly religious.

Spiritual sure.

There’s a difference.

Which I don’t particularly feel like visiting tonight.

Whoever he is, I made him up in my brain.

Lightning bolt moment.

“Bannerman. That’s a cool last name. No. Matt Bannerman.”

So, story idea?

Short play?

My porn star alter ego?

Obviously it can’t be that intrusive. I’ve been distracted from this post four times now.

But the name is still there.

Okay, Dorothy. Let’s follow the yellow brick road.

I’m in a mood.

Gods, when am I not in a mood?

Seriously.

Maybe it’s the weaning off of the Abilify.

That’s supposed to be a mood stabilizer.

Great.

I need to get my emotions in check.

Can’t take this out on others.

They did nothing to deserve this.

To everyone coming into contact with me.

I apologize in advance.

I’m not myself.

I’m friends with the monster that’s under my bed
Get along with the voices inside of my head
You’re tryin’ to save me, stop holdin’ your breath
And you think I’m crazy, yeah, you think I’m crazy

Monster, Eminem

I’m definitely not friends with Harold.

We’re far from frenemies.

Adversaries at best.

He’s Khan to my Kirk.

(Nerd alert.)

There’ve been some very long nights.

Questions at 4am that I had no answers for.

Which I realize.

I still don’t.

But they seem less severe.

Maybe it’s maturity.

Maybe it’s Wellbutrin.

Gods knows, I wasn’t diagnosed back then.

I should’ve been.

I should’ve been diagnosed in high school.

You know.

When I refused to get out of bed in the morning.

Instead I saw a psychologist who specialized in relationships.

How the fuck was that supposed to help me?

I was in an obsidian place in high school.

Which carried through to my 30s.

I bring this up.

Because.

Things are getting better.

It’s less stigmatized.

And yet.

That’s what I’m doing.

With the lithium.

I’m worried it’ll work too well.

That maybe I am a little crazy.

This isn’t making much sense.

Time to hit pause.

I got the pills today.

That’s why I’m freaking out.

One step closer.

(Guess I’m not hitting pause.)

They’re covered by Trillium and come August, my deductible resets and I’d have to pay out-of-pocket. This way, I’ve got it for at least a month.

This whole debate.

It was abstract.

Now it’s concrete.

It’s feels like there’s no turning back.

I just don’t want to lose myself.

For a hot minute, I contemplated a post with random, funny (to me) thoughts that passed through my brain.

“Pudding is not cookies.”

You had to be there.

In my head.

Definitely not funny.

I’m trying to distract myself.

From thinking.

Because then it overwhelms.

And I start to spin.

I’m so tired of spinning.

I had a post in my head earlier.

And I lost it.

Poof.

Gone.

This is what I’m afraid of.

But on a larger scale.

Couple that with constant dread about my teeth.

Despite moments of bliss.

I’m a wreck inside.

But this shall pass.

Right?

Would taking lithium stigmatize me?

(Yes, I still haven’t decided. Unlike my bipolar-led hyper-focused need to do things immediately, but because of the lead up time from weaning off of Abilify, this decision’s not gonna be made until the end of the month, I think.)

I saw a postcard on PostSecret today.

That said the writer didn’t tell people they were taking lithium, because they thought it would give people the impression that they were crazy.

And that hit home.

Plus, I’m still worried about the whole losing my creativity thing.

I may not be writing plays, at this moment, but I am writing daily.

I don’t want that to go away.

And I’m afraid it will.

What if my crazy is fuelling my creativity?

Which also fuels my impulsiveness and mania.

Is it better to at least try it and just see what happens?

But every time a stray thought passes through my mind.

That could be a great short play.

Fuck, I need to get this thought out before it eats my soul.

What if, while testing out the lithium, the one thought that was meant bounces off my brain and into someone else’s?

So if you wonder why.

A guy who has impulse control is being so passive.

It’s because of circular discussions such as this.

Defecting Russian dancers dance into Hockney prints
Exclusive to Bloomingdales, gift-wrapped in red from the land of blue rinse
They boggle at menus in Olde English verse
“Ode to burger” by Keats at his worst
The hissing of omelettes, the breaking of legs
Don’t shoot ’till you see the whites of their eggs
The pink fillet mignon looks black on the negs
Strange apparatus, you’ve never seen
Strange apparatus, even stranger theme
Street alligators, big Anglophile will navigate us through a change of style
I came, I saw, what manner of beast is this?
New York, you talk a little bit left of centre
A scream, a shout
New York is throwing it’s weight around
Walk tall, walk straight, spit the world right in the eye
The stronger the wood, the straighter the arrow
Dismembered hopeful My-Lai veterans queuing for sleaze
“Sorry no dogs, no fags, no shriners and no amputees”
Sexual athlete applies for audition
Willing to make it in any position
Just one of the extras with blood on their faces
In snow-white and the seven basket cases
I’m happy and dopey and dirty in places

10cc, An Englishman in New York

This map shows the concentration of visitors to my blog in the past 365 days.

Does anyone know?

I mean, this guy used to be in everything.

Remember The West Wing?

He was there.

And.

Uh.

He was in a lot of shit.

When you needed a non-offensive, milquetoast sort.

I never mentioned my brief foray into acting.

Or, to be precise, my failed attempt at an acting career.

My agent, whose name I forget — I remember the acting/modelling agency was on Dufferin Avenue north of College Street. That’s pretty fucked. I can’t recall my only agent’s name but I remember where the converted house was.

(Like the time I transcribed for Sharon, Lois & Bram back in my early 20s. I introduced them to Billy Vera and the Beaters’ jazz cover of Peanut Butter, and they absolutely fuckin’ loved it. Which I have searched for in vain these past years. Like it’s been erased and only I remember it.)

I had to go back and reread the post to remember where I was going.

I sure as hell derailed this train.

Right. My agent.

She did alright. Landed me two gigs. One was an improvised pilot for one of a plethora of Hot Judge shows.

Sample dialogue:

Her: You don’t do anything around the house.

Me: I garden.

Her: Pulling up weeds from the tile isn’t gardening.

That never aired.

And then there’s the commercial that went national in the U.S. for Ultra Dove dish detergent. I was SOC, and landed the part when i “finger-gunned” the camera, winked and clicked my teeth.

They used it in the final take.

I never got to see it, because it only aired in the U.S.

But, you say, wouldn’t your agent have gotten a copy of these for your reel?

You would be correct.

And she would have.

If she hadn’t quit the agency while I was vacationing (briefly, another story) in Dublin.

And I found out from my buddy John, who’d taken residence there a few years earlier.

And the modelling/acting agency became a modelling agency once more.

At least I got paid for the commercial.

But I took it as a sign.

It didn’t matter how many acting classes I took, I was no Sir Ian McKellan. Or Don McKellar.

Or Paul Reubens.

Okay I’m tired.

My cat just told me to fuck off.

I’m going to bed.