BACKGROUND: The Format
I know I should be happy. There's a little paragraph in this week's Sacramento News and Review !!PLUS!! there's a sweet little blurb about me in this month's Playboy Magazine. I mean, how fucking cool is that, huh? Playboy magazine is without a doubt the single coolest magazine in America, hands down, and there's actually a little blurb about my Ed Wood church in it. So, somehow, possibly vicariously, doesn't that officially make me cool? I think it does. But somehow, despite me being in Premiere magazine, Rue Morgue magazine, the National Enquirer for fuck's sake, I still have these wrestling matches with am I a nice guy, am I an asshole, does anybody care sort of stuff, which is all pointless. I should be dancing on the roof right now.
That's not all of it. There are other things, personal things that have to do with relationships and people, things that I don't feel like talking about.
It's really strange, the life I lead. I'm trying to let go of all this Drama on the Fourth of July bullshit, trying to forget heartbreaks of the past and trying to focus all of my time and energy on being brave and strong and being a good boyfriend and a good father and a good worker and a good religious leader. I try to look forward, to look to the future, to look behind the mountain in front of me but it's just so hard for me. I have such a hard time looking forward. I think too much. I focus too much on my past. Every second that I'm not talking or drinking I'm looking back at the past and all my past brings me is tears and sadness and even more depression.
Oh, and I quit drinking, BTW. I was drinking pretty goddamn hard this past month or two. Drinking alone on my couch that becomes fifty miles long when I'm on it alone, just me and my beer watching Space Ghost and Ed Wood movies until I fall asleep. Despressing stuff. But I'm trying to reclaim my life, face the honesty that I've been trying to supress, and once again quitting drinking. Maybe not for good. For at least seven months. I can't tell you WHY just seven months. Not yet, at least. Tere and Pepe and Marisa and I suspect Michael Burns knows why seven months, but nobody else knows.
This is my 17,984th attempt at being happy. Wish me good luck.