Something Rotten in the State

Recently I bought a new computer, and I have a feeling that the uncompromised access of such a wonderful machine (I had a laptop that was loaded with viruses and was useless) is going to mean a revival of this place for me.  I am like a relic to it.  Stormie is the only other remaining and we both sort of wax and wane in tandem at times or in complete and utter juxtaposition.  Myspace is wonderful, but it’s a place to exercise my comedy, it is the Yin to this Yang.  Blah blah blah.  I feel like writing that a lot lately.  Nothing is as sorry as a man made up seemingly solely of words.

I say seemingly because those that aren’t just words, are far more sorry than those that are.  Those who are all words, they’re pathetic and pitiable in a way born of Nature.  And those who have at least some action to their acts, to their being, are sorry because they are decidely and oh so humanly pathetic….by choice.  I’m wallowing right now a bit. 

The landlord is a fucking prick.  I hate him with each passing day more and more.  All charity he has given is tainted now with expectations of absolute loyalty and all friendship and charity paid back to him has been overlooked and ignored.  He is a fool.  I am moving.  With my brother and Monte by the end of next month I hope.  It is either that or destroy his hold on the house that we’re in.  Enough of this.  This is not what I’m here to talk about.

I’m here to talk about dreams.  Mine have grown violent and repugnant lately.  I have a recurring dream about running through the woods, fending off viscious, disgusting animals….giant spiders covered in pus and making sounds unearthly and frightening….I hide in a shed where mongrel dogs, rabid and ravenous, with terrible mange and disgusting gutteral growls try to gnaw at me.  The first time I had this dream I tried to climb out a window and they sunk their teeth into my legs and tore away my flesh again and again and left my legs yellow and bloody as I tried to run on.  Then I woke up.  Last time, there was a young blonde girl in the shed, we were both young now that I come to think of it…ten or so….and the shed (I forgot to mention this) is filled with chairs.  So I fend off one of the mongrels with a chair while she pins one under the legs of a chair, using another chair to crush its skull like a nutcracker, slowly with great pressure….the sound is awful, so is the twitching and the snarls.  She does it again and again to the others…..until they’re all gone.  Then I wake up.  I don’t find even the second dream reassuring.

I have had other violent awful dreams.  I had one last night that I don’t want to speak about, but let us just say that I did something horrible to someone, something very very terrible, and while in the dream it was an accident, a part of me, I’m not sure whether it was the subconscious or conscious mind, was delighted that what had happened happened.  I wonder if this is how my father feels, if this is what he dreams?  I am terrified that my general demeanor, all the years of frustration, the way I swallow everything and let everyone walk over me, will eventually lead to me becoming him. 

I uttered this thought last night, but is it too much to ask for someone to appreciate and reciprocate the kindness you give to them?  No one should expect it.  I don’t.  I also, however, don’t expect to get shit on and pushed around.  And that’s what happens.  People too often force their ideas onto others, feelings of what they think is right for the other person to do, feelings of what they think the other person should or does like….I hate surprises, actually.  I really do.  I will gladly orchestrate a surprise for someone who enjoys them, but I do not enjoy them.  I plan things very carefully day in and day out.  I expect my days to go certain ways, and when people fuck up my schedule, no matter their intentions, I’m angry.  Because their intention may be to make me feel better, or to make me feel good, or to do something spontaneous and exciting, but they don’t go about addressing it in a way that says: "This is what Brad wants."  They go about in a way that says: "This is what I think is cool."  And it makes me angry because I tell people everything….well most everything….at least the things about what I like and don’t like.

Who knows what my parents are going to get for my birthday.  I’m actually mollified.  I just bought a computer and I told them I just wanted money to offset that, but I don’t think that’s what they’re going to do.  For my graduation gift (knowing full well I was going to be an actor/writer) they got me a briefcase…the most useless thing on the planet for my professions.  They tried to say that I could keep my scripts in them, which would be assinine since scripts are done electronically now and any script that sits in my briefcase is a script no one wants to produce.  I didn’t have the heart to tell them to take it back and give me something else, because they would have been offended.  Ha.  I sucked it up and have a useless storage case that cost them a ridiculous amount of money, and to ask for something that I actually need or want on my own personal special occasion, would be too offensive…..so I don’t do it. 

This diary has become connected to my misery.  It has become connected to my outrage.  I can’t seem to write pleasant things in here anymore….and I often feel that the greatest things happening to me in my life I cannot talk about, for fear that they will go away and then people will wonder how and why.  Ugh.  I’m not really upset, either.  That’s what makes this so annoying.  I’m at a point in my life that I want to be at.  I can enjoy my days.  It’s just, I’m so fucking filled with anger and misery from years and years and years and years of suffering and slogging through shit that now the slightest thing sets me off and I feel no need to hold back.  My parents forced me to smile when I got hurt and beat and picked on because I knew that their wrath at finding their name tarnished in any community of Wisconsin would be awful and swift.  So I’m now in California where the things I do only characterize me, and I’m done taking shit from people.  I will be as good and decent as ever, but I won’t keep going when you spurn me.  I just can’t do it anymore.  I’d like to think I deserve better than a lot of the people I call my friends.  I know I do.  My roommates who I’ve know for five months treat me better than most of my friends.  How ridiculous is that.

I’m done here, this is only making me more angry.