My last entry has garnered quite a response: sympathy, confusion, delight. I'll take the former, unless you're hiring (I don't wanna play any more parking lots); the confusion is understandable; and I aimed at a touch of the amusingly insightful, but hadn't imagined it a yuck-fest.
I hold no pretensions about being correct or having the right perspective about anything. I tell the truth. I don't lie here. I fictionalize occasionally. I stumble from sarcasm to seriousness way too inelegantly. And though I'm not just making shit up, I am wholly aware that I reveal a faulty way of going about things.
I'm bitter. Apparently. And that's part of the point. If there is one. There probably isn't. My bitterness is not news to me. And I know it gets me nowhere. Bitter bitter bitterbitter bitter b-bibbittererer. B-but it's my diary. My catharsis. I got nothin' else. Well, I got stuff. But it doesn't get any better than this. Bitterness is my life.
But not only do I not harbor any something-or-another about something-or-another else; I am not delusional: I was never really any good. Sure, there are worse getting an awful lot out of their worseness, but everywhere I looked, I was able to bear witness to actual talent. That's a hard witness to bear when you're striving for better than not being picked for the game.
And here's the kicker: Yes, the recollection of my experience in the theater was the truth. It happened as I told it. But (and at least one person got this): it's a metaphor. Aptly analogous down to the dreadful detail. Yes. I am. Just that. Pathetic.
Speakin' o' which: Why oh why are you people throwing my vote away!? Freedom isn't free! If you don't pony up the pesos and pay me to compound your influence in the most successful democratic experiment in the history of history, then you have no right to complain!
I hold no pretensions about being correct or having the right perspective about anything. I tell the truth. I don't lie here. I fictionalize occasionally. I stumble from sarcasm to seriousness way too inelegantly. And though I'm not just making shit up, I am wholly aware that I reveal a faulty way of going about things.
I'm bitter. Apparently. And that's part of the point. If there is one. There probably isn't. My bitterness is not news to me. And I know it gets me nowhere. Bitter bitter bitterbitter bitter b-bibbittererer. B-but it's my diary. My catharsis. I got nothin' else. Well, I got stuff. But it doesn't get any better than this. Bitterness is my life.
But not only do I not harbor any something-or-another about something-or-another else; I am not delusional: I was never really any good. Sure, there are worse getting an awful lot out of their worseness, but everywhere I looked, I was able to bear witness to actual talent. That's a hard witness to bear when you're striving for better than not being picked for the game.
And here's the kicker: Yes, the recollection of my experience in the theater was the truth. It happened as I told it. But (and at least one person got this): it's a metaphor. Aptly analogous down to the dreadful detail. Yes. I am. Just that. Pathetic.
Speakin' o' which: Why oh why are you people throwing my vote away!? Freedom isn't free! If you don't pony up the pesos and pay me to compound your influence in the most successful democratic experiment in the history of history, then you have no right to complain!
