I recognize that I’m a miserable prick. Most of the people around me understand this as well, and accept it. I make no apologies, but I try (with varied amounts of success) not to take it out on them.

It’s easier to ignore when I’m stressed or crazy-busy because I simply don’t have the time to be surly (like most things, doing it well requires a certain amount of effort). When I’m idle or left to myself for long periods of time is when it really begins to manifest in an ugly, self-indulgent tendency towards socio-sadism.

With the exception of our trip to Jamaica at the beginning of July, I haven’t had an idle moment in… oh… twenty years. Yeah, I stop every now and again. Watch a movie or take a vacation or something, but that’s a choice. There’s always something I should be doing, and that little, nagging voice never really goes away. But I can’t remember the last time I just… had nothing that needed doing.


Kylie has been out of town this week so things that might otherwise have been minor annoyances have been irritating the shit out of me. One computer decided it was a good week to have a completely undeserved breakdown, so I’ve been fixing that. Someone I consider — and might have to reconsider — a friend kicked me in the balls, professionally-speaking, and I’ve been counteracting that.

On top of which, it seems to be one of those “everyone wants me to do their fucking jobs for them” weeks. People I work with by choice, people I work with because they’ve been picked by the companies I work for, and people who shouldn’t be working with anyone at all… all of them need a fucking baby bottle and a cookie and a pat on the head and could you bring me a blanket and does it have to be that color and could you move the house a foot to the left and what do you do when you look for something and jesus fucking christ, PEOPLE!

All of which just serves to make the little, meaningless shit even more annoying. It drives me crazy that Tricia Helfer, the hot blonde spokesmodel for the Cylons who plays Number Six onBattlestar Galactica, mispronounces nuclear like some dipshit senator from Georgia, so every time she says “nookyahlur” during an episode I think of the retarded mongoloid we have for a president.

It makes me nuts that not a single one of our fucking minions seems capable of putting ANYTHING back where they fucking FOUND it.

I hate it that I wasted half an hour on the phone with Film L.A. reporting a mainstream crew that shot on the street in front of our place on Sunday and dumped their fucking craft service garbageon our goddamned corner.

Then I get a call from a… I dunno what the fuck he is, mainstream acquaintance, I guess… on the East coast who has been hassling me for a copy of Corruption since before we shot the fucking thing telling me that he got the DVD I sent him, and while he would normally never watch anything with (*anonymous performer*) in it because he dislikes (*anonymous performer*)so much, he’ll make an exception for me.

Do I even need to say it? Can I resist?


FUCK YOU you fucking obnoxious little New York ASSHOLE! I mean, who the fuck does this arrogant, Manhattan-island-cave-troll think he is, for fuck’s sake?!? And people don’t understand why I would never wanna live there!


Okay. But there’s an upside. Y’see, those of you who aren’t miserable fucks, or who don’t possess one of your very own, probably don’t know that deep down, guys like me are the biggest sentimental slobs in the world, and all of your emotional responses get heightened when you’re this bent out of shape. I’ve been re-watching the second season of the new Doctor Who this week as I’ve been resuscitating PCs, and I cried like a baby last night at the final episode (oh, shut up).

As I was moving pictures around on K’s newly-living computer, I spent far too long looking at snaps of our animals (she really is the crazy old cat lady, you know — she’s got thousands of pictures), particularly the so-cute-you-wanna-crush-em shots of our kitten when she was still sweet, before she grew into the loveless fur-tube she is now.

And I finally found some of Adrianna Nicole’s clips from InSex on the IntarWeb, which also make me misty-eyed, but just the one eye.

So Kylie gets back this weekend, which is good, at least for me. I can’t take much more of this emotional roller-coaster; I’ll be glad to get back to my normal, ten-different-shades-of-black world view. In the meantime, if anyone wants to come by and mock me for crying at, I dunno, Field of Dreams or Aliens or something so I can get really good and annoyed and completely pop a stitch — just to vent steam, you understand — you just let me know.

Whatcha think?

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Asking a working writer what he thinks about critics is like asking a lamppost how it feels about dogs. — Christopher Hampton