written over a few days, then posted without edit.
Living this way is weird for an addict. Eating lots of veggies, fruits, grains, lean meats, and repeat. Yes, it’s still going on. It has gotten to a point where I can’t imagine not eating this way. The benefits of not eating like shit outweigh my curiosity regarding the chicken sandwich wars. I love chicken sandwiches, but I’ll be fine with the fried memories. Ain’t it a bitch though… pimple on my lip. I’m 50 years old and I have a pimple… while eating the healthiest I’ve ever done. I’m going to miss social distancing… someone was waking close to me at the store and I almost yelled “I don’t know you… that’s my purse!” and ran off. Looking forward to the thought of going out, having anxiety about it, finally doing it. Feeling great about doing it, feeling as if progress was made, then make plans to do something else. Get excited, then back out due to anxiety. I kid I kid… no, it sucks. Trying to get through that though.
Sometimes I feel like I made the most of my youth and then sometimes I feel like I wasted a decade or two by doing stand-up comedy and drinking / partying almost every night of the week. It’s a cognitive dissonance clusterfuck. Have you seen Mike Tyson lately? Holy crap… I saw a picture of Mike right now, next to one of Mike in 2003 and he looks like he’s in better shape right now. Mentally, he is so much stronger it seems. Age is really good for some personalities. Age can mellow the harshest things or it can bring moments of doubt that things will ever change.
I interviewed for a job that I didn’t get. I was referred by a friend so either I really blew the interview and/or he’s about to get fired. Ha ha. Good fuck. It was for a phone sales job that would have ended up being relatively awful, but a decent chance of advancement. Well, not for me. Not even a second interview. It stung, but maybe most of all because a friend had gone out of their way to help me just to get to the end of the formula, the equation to find that the answer all along was that I’m a loser. That’s how it felt. When a friend recommends you and there isn’t a second interview? Fuck man… that ain’t good. If I keep repeating this process, I’m just going to get bitter. Time has a way of doing that. I don’t know exactly what yet, but I’m going to try to make something grow. I would really like some of these blog posts to be pictures of me rolling in some cash. Ha ha. JK. The money will follow… I just don’t want to feel like I’m wasting time that I’ve already wasted by being a waste. So, I guess it’s gig work and dream chasing for a bit. Solid plan when you’re about to turn 51. Looking outside as the tomato plants grow, the morning rain steams from the warming roofs just slightly or is it just my eyes playing tricks. The sound of the neighbors WRX starts up… harmonics are no match for a 94 Chevy 350 I think to myself as I imagine the rumble of my engine. I love my Suburban. Fucking love it. Sitting in my Suburban feels safe. The seats are still so comfortable, and it has that “I could almost live in this feel.” 42-gallon gas tank that allows the brain to imagine all the places that could be seen in a tank or two, and the thoughts of changing it to electric one day, huge area in the back to store batteries… I start her up and smile.
I’m writing this is two sittings so far… just for transparency. I really want to write about my time in San Diego and finish or complete some stuff about my time in Austin, but I really want to protect those who were around me at the time. People grow up and shit changes. I’m going to be very general regarding the supporting characters in this by design. I feel better now about proceeding but that will probably be saved for the next post. Writing for me… I hate feeling pushed or rushed but I don’t want to just procrastinate either.
As I saw the familiar face and began to call her name, I realized that my mask was on as I was in the grocery store at the time. She turned around not wearing a mask and looking the exact same as the last time that I saw her. By the look in her eyes I could tell that she couldn’t recognize me without the facial bloating left by the alcoholic residuals that pay off in bloating and that alcoholic stare. “It’s Steven… we used to be neighbors…” Oh, wow or something like that sputtered from her mouth and we enjoyed catching up for 20 minutes or so. My eyes teared up when I explained that I hadn’t had a drink for over four years. I hate that about me. My emotions… the sadness, the inability to not cry sometimes. I really just wish that it all would go away. I apologize many times, not sobbing, not really crying, just welling up and wiping off. And apologizing as if I just shit my pants. Trying to apologize to myself while driving home and trying to figure out what that strange noise is when the Suburban gets some gas. Maybe the exhaust hitting some metal, maybe the transmission… again. 4L60E… a transmission so bad that the owners know it by name.
Seeing someone from my past can be emotional, especially since I’ve made so many changes, so many positive steps, just waiting and trying to figure out my next move. Gotta have a dream. Gotta have some ambition.
I’m taking a break from FB right now. It’s been a week and I’m not sure how long I’m going to stay off of it, but I had to step back from it. I found myself reading posts that my friends would write on various dumbshit threads. Holy fuck… I kept finding myself repeating that and just getting too much negativity, arguing, fucked up debating of some sort. Just a mess. Had to step back. I think I might start trying to post on Sunday nights. Maybe work on something throughout the week and post on Sunday. I’m feeling like writing lately. Artistic as fuck playa. About to jump on my Digitakt.
Memories can just flood the brain like a fucked up reverse dopamine feel of anxiety and regret. Remembering stupid decisions and the lines of cocaine after performing at the Comedy Store in La Jolla in front of a crowd of 12 or 200… didn’t matter. It was weird how your brain could almost make you believe that everything was great. How everything was going to plan and comedy was about to work out. In the middle of addiction, having no idea if you’re even going to wake up the next day. Somas in the system, given to me for free from another comic, doing a line of coke from someone else and a free drink from the bartender. Working the door… on the fucking clock drinking followed by an after party. It can feel like everything is ok. You’re working at the Comedy Store the voice inside my head will tell me. Well, in La Jolla. Not, quite the same as working at the one in Hollywood. It’s weird how in the middle of shit you can feel like everything is ok. Like you’re living the dream. Night time is a dream and daytime is a nightmare.