had a great night! The end.
Or as my iPhone likes to correct me, “Hotly”.
This week I got sick for the first time in a year. I’ve already passed it and am back to full operating capacity, but I was out of commission for a day. In any case, I’m glad to be back.
There’s something about being sick though… that makes me look in the mirror a lot. Not in a vain way… mucus is hardly “hotly”, but in a critical manner along the lines of a hypochondriac.
I’ve had for the past few years a growing mark on the center of my abdomen. It started out as a mole and has since converged into a sweeping brown mass that consumes my flesh millimeter by millimeter each year. I’d say it’s doubled in size since I first noticed it. Dark spots are blurred within the lighter brown and I’m almost positive that if not already, it will develop into Melanoma.
Obviously the most common response to this is, “I should get tested for Alzheimer’s”. Well, I guess that’s more of a personal first reaction. But seeing as it is a hereditary condition (the Grandpops “caught it”), and with the discovery of a certain protein in the bloodstream that allows doctors to predict your likelihood of developing Alzheimer’s, it seems like the condition is more important than the cap “C”. Or rather, perhaps in my case, they are symbiotic partners.
You see, I hate the idea of losing my lucidity. I’m already half crazy. The world, let alone myself couldn’t handle the other half. So maybe it’s just that this skin malady is really developing at the right time and the right pace so that when I start to drool and spit-up like an old wrinkly baby, because my brain has started to dissolve into spitup to float among my blood cells, no one will have to make the choice of taking care of me. Cancer will make that choice.
My grandpops was 83 when we first started to notice his downward slide. I’m 25. That gives me another half a century to work out my master scheme, establish a legacy… and blow it all to shit.
It’s going to be a great New Year.
that I succumb to depression. But when I do, it hits hard. Like a bitch slap from some cosmic star hand. Yeah… it fucking hurts. Often I try to rationalize what it is that is making me feel the way I do… often though, a simple answer doesn’t exist. I think a lot of it has to do with just a building of events. Little scratches that seem insignificant at first, but overtime corrode the shell that I’ve created. I tell myself I’m talented. I tell myself I’m pretty. I tell myself I’m worth getting to know. And then I go and shave half my head because I can’t for the life of me figure out why none of those things prove to be true, when in fact I know them to be… and still, there is very little to show for the evidence stacking up in my favor. The end of the year is coming up… and I made goals for myself. Not goals that involve changing me… because that’s silly. I like me… but goals of achievement. The things that are actually ascertainable. So far, I’ve done alright. Survived my first year in the toughest city on earth. Converted an internship into an Art Directorship in 5 months. Shot an ad campaign for a luxury brand that is now getting some mega press… and still, the one thing I had my highest hopes set on is out of reach. You know what, that’s probably the thing that’s killing me. Is knowing that I’ve failed myself. Not because I didn’t try. In fact, had I not tried, I probably wouldn’t be so damned butt hurt. But the fact of the matter is I’ve laid it out there, again and again, and no fucking bites. Publication is the penultimate dream. The universe must know I really want this… and it’s just slapping me in the face with it. You teasing bitch. Give in already! I eat cake. So cut me off a slice… and don’t be stingy.