Fo' sho'
I just saw Superbad at the sneak preview. The second half of the movie is significantly better than the first. Been a while I lol'd at a movie like that.
I assume you all have guns and crack.
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Comic Talk and General Discussion *
Rant or Vent here
Having a writer's block for PARA SAYO (sequel of MAG-ISA in its script stages). Staring at the comp screen a little too long… :( Dialog looks like its written during my first few years in Canada. Bad English. lol
Happens to the best of us. I've had times that I was staring at the screen for hours and still couldn't come up with decent dialogue…
The best thing to destroy writers block is a walk-about.
make sure you take a pen along with you.
Escape familiar surroundings as soon as possible and just go have a look around out in the world, down the street…another room…
what ever…where ever, just as long as it is outside of the Normal Modus operandi.
Reading over this record of Rants and Vents, I know I'm not alone in suffering from periodic bouts of deep dark depression.
I'm going through a dilly of a bout now, in fact. I'm on medication but it doesn't fix everything. Maybe my brain chemistry is just too screwed up even for modern medical science to do all that much for me. Oh, the stuff does help some. For instance, while I am currently suffering from deep depresion, at least I'm feeling no actual misery.
Ain't it a kick in the rump that I'm sort of nostalgic for all the rest of it? That is, it just feels sort of weird that I'm not suffering from pangs of emotional agony as well. Even after about half a decade of medically-aided surcease from depression, I'm not used to the weird effects such tinkering with the brain chemistry creates. I mean it sort of feels as if part of my psychi has been amputated – the fact that this is actually a good thing notwithstanding. Humans are weird creatures, eh?
In fact, sometimes I think I'd almost prefer the old days when I used to suffer from a massive fit of depression with all the emotional trimmings. I almost want to say that, "I want my gloom and despair and excessive agony, and I also want my bad luck rather than no luck at all!" just like in the bad old days before medications. But not really. As bad as things are now, they used to really be the emotional pits.
Yeah, I know the old fashioned home remedies, only they won't work for me because, you see, I'm a reformed alcoholic and so I don't drink. I no longer partake of the old whacky-tobaccy either [and haven't done so for decades] because I'm so totally an addictive personality that I would gladly become the old Cheech and Chong parody of a stoner if afforded enough access and funding. In my case it's really better to have nothing at all to do with comforting smoke than to toy around in the occasional feel-good puff, as doing that would only make me yearn for more of what I don't dare have.
Sex? Meh, what's it good for? I know that's an alien sentiment to most people reading this, but seriously; sex is just a small respite from the slings and arrows of outrageous emotionalism, however much you are enjoying it in the meanwhile. In my case, strenuous exercise [okay, okay, a different sort of strenuous exercise] works a bit better. I've been toying around with weight lifting again, and to a very slight extent, it seems to help.
So, I stay busy with necessary work and exercise while I just wonder why I even continue bothering to breathe. Don't be alarmed, I always wonder why I bother to continue living during these depressive bouts. Sometimes they last for several months, of course, and then I actually have arguments with myself over the issue of continued existence, pointing out that I ought to cease the internal dialog over the issue since I am just boring myself, and, besides which, both the ego and the id know that I'm too much of a life-lover at heart to bring things to an artificial end - untimely or otherwise. It almost gets comical in a macabre sort of way. I should probably create a cartoon strip about it, I suppose.
Meanwhile, on that note, I can't make myself continue with art of any sort. That's why I'm writing this rant, don't you know. The depression is old hat to me after all. I've been struggling with that garbage all my life. But right now, it's the inability to do art that's really bugging me, not the depression itself. I've got ideas; many, many ideas, but I just don't feel like putting them on paper or on screen. I don't want to start anything and I sure as hell don't want to continue or finish anything that I've already got ready to be cleaned up, inked, and further processed. Bummer.
Now I'm so familiar with this routine that it bores me to tears. For instance, I know that in a few weeks, or a month or two at most, the weird chemical imbalance will somehow adjust itself and suddenly life will be worth living again. Cheers.
You'd think that one of science's miracle happy pills would work on me, wouldn't you? Nah! M.D.s have put me on several different types over the years and they have precisely two and only two effects on me. In the first instance – for instance the stuff I'm taking now – all they do is keep me from seriously contemplating loading up the old pistol or driving over a cliff, but that's about it. This is good in that the medication does at least allow me to function in an outwardly semi-normal way, meaning that I can force myself to do absolutely necessary work, but nothing else – and do it, mind you, while no one realizes how I'm feeling inside, not even my wife. Let's hear it for science!
As for the medications that actually blast through this deep, dark depression of mine, they leave me soooooo giddily happy that I am actually incapable of focusing on work because I simply feel too good to restrict myself to boring, wage earning minutia and details. Boooooo! Now that would be tolerable if they also switched my system back to normal in the process, but that they don't do. They simply keep me uber-happy and non-functioning for however long the normal fit of depression is set to run, be that a few weeks or a couple of months.
I'll tell you something interesting too. You do not want to stop taking your uber-happy pills either – or even cut back on them – while the depression is still trying to mess with your mind, because if you do you will get slammed in the face hard with every dark and negative thought known to humanity. Shudder!
So what's a person to do? Nothing. Ain't that fun?
There's nothing to do except stay as sane and emotionally level as possible and just ride it out until your own brain decides to flip whatever internal set of switches control depression and give you respite from yourself once again, and life mysteriously, magically, instantly becomes worth living again.
For all of this, though, I am happy in one respect. At least I now know what the hell is wrong with me. I was in my forties – my freaking forties, damn it! - before I even realized that I was bi-polar. The reason that no one around me realized it was because over the years, survival necessities had forced me to learn how to outwardly fake being emotionally stable. The sad thing, though, is that I didn't even realize what I was faking. I didn't recognize the depression and despair as being the problem itself, I just thought that I was a semi-serious lunatic.
So, let's all vigorously slap our hands together in an enthusiastic and repetitive manner for several seconds in the name of progress. Yayyyyyyyyyyyy!
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