I’m tired of living my boring life in Greenpoint. I’m stuck in a maze like a mouse chasing the stench of moldy cheese, an unappealing award for an overly difficult feat. I’ve got no one here, but no means to leave. I’ve grown up and moved on, but I have to return here to no one and nothing for me every couple of months. Each and every time, it just puts me in the worst mood for weeks on ends. Mini-depressions overtake my life. I want to leave and be with people who actually pretend to give a fuck about me rather than those here who throw the smile on their face and are polite when passing by and then play darts with my back as I walk past them. It kills me that this shitty first-world problem has gotten the better part of me. I need to get my license and get a car. Then I can get the fuck out of here and stay the hell out. I will never return here once I don’t have to. Fuck this place.
“Having sex in the morning, Your love was foreign to me. It made me think maybe human Is not such a bad thing to be. But I just laid there in protest, Entirely fucked. It’s such a stubborn reminder, One perfect night’s not enough.”
Just minutes ago, because of my inability to sleep, I began to write my first album review so that I can have samples to send to AlterThePress by the end of the week. Although the position is unpaid, it’d look great on my resumé and I’d love to do it because of my love of writing and music. Combining the two only seems logical. The album I’m reviewing is Misser’s debut, Every Day I Tell Myself I’m Going to Be a Better Person. I love the hell out of the album, but am writing about it as unbiasedly as I can. I don’t get nervous often, but this is one of those times. If you’d like to offer any editing/critiques on it, please hit me up because the more help I get the better!
Literally all my friends are out of my neighborhood. All those that do live within subway distance are too busy being whipped by girlfriends, growing into/are pretentious assfucks who think I’m the same way, or pricks who think I’m a shitty friend because of absences in their lives that I cannot control.
I like to be alone, but all the time is disheartening and I’m already starting to feel it a month into summer. Fucking awesome.
I just lawyered myself. I’m done bitching for the night.
I’m feeling pretty shitty tonight and I don’t have a legitimate reason to do so. Yesterday was Sperm Donor’s Father’s Day and it was awkward as it could be for a solid four hours! Then he went to the bar and I had a day alone reading and sleeping. Win for being productive? Ha.
The orthodontist told me today that my teeth aren’t as fucked up as they could be thanks to my actually wearing the retainer as advised! I guess that’s not as much of a boost since I think my teeth look freakin’ weird in my abnormally large jaw (as told to me at age 12 by a dentist, so that shit’s legit).
I got some cool books today (mainly Spider-Man & Philosophy and A Clash of Kings) along with a Metal Gear Solids 2 and 3 on Vita with a gift card I had buried in my wallet. Why am I not entertained and feeling swell as usual, then?
I hate being in whiny/shitty moods for no reason. (Aren’t the two synonymous?)
I’m listening to Hot Water Music because I like to punk the fuck out while I’m reading. They’re also a kickass band that I’ve never given enough attention to. The basslines easily tell Flea to get cleaned off of whatever dog he’s attached to while the drums round out the rhythm section with nice, unexpected fills that never lose time. Yay: a good punk rock drummer!
I’m trying to reread Catch-22 for the umpteenth time. I only ever got a few chapters into the book and I never knew why I was never able to continue. I like the plot, setting, characters, writing, and everything in between, but I was never able to keep going. This time I’m just trying to work my way through it so that I can finally say I read it and gave it the full chance Joseph Heller warrants for it.
After this book (hopefully) comes to a close, I’m likely going to read some James Joyce for the first time since last semester when I attempted to read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man while in the thick of regular schoolwork and a job. I’m so pumped to return to the author that made me want to be a writer and I can’t wait to see what I find in his novel that I didn’t yet discover in his short stories.
My reactions to "Running with Scissors" by Augusten Burroughs
I grew up in an extremely dysfunctional family. (If you’ve been following me for some time or actually are close with me “in real life,” then you know this.) Since this book is classified as a “memoir,” it made me run through my own childhood as the narrator lived his. Either I’m emotionally mature and am truly over my growing up or I’m a master of repression; either way, this book hit home with me since it reflected the dysfunctionality of what seems to be a promising family, not unlike my own.
Augusten is a pre-teen who lives in the northeastern United States. At a young age, he comes to terms with his homosexuality as well as his inability to interact well with others. Augusten’s mother is a once-published poet who is constantly struggling to write her next emotionally charged piece about being a woman; his father is a philosophy professor. Augusten also has a brother who mostly responds in grunts and one-word answers, but he might be the most “normal” member the family has to offer.
Augusten’s parents’ marriage is crumbling before his eyes because his mother, Deirdre, thinks that his father, Norman, is in love with his mother, and therefore psychologically unstable in their relationship. He is oppressive and abusive and is hardly a part of Augusten’s upbringing. (For example, Augusten asks to play checkers, but his father is too busy drinking in the darkness of the basement to play. When Norman needs to take the trash to the dump, however, he calls upon his son.) Eventually, upon a psychotic breakdown and a domestic argument between his parents, Augusten and his mother move out leave his father.
His mother goes for psychiatric treatment to the quirky and questionable Dr. Finch, a Santa Claus among men. Early in her treatment, the doctor and Deirdre decide that Augusten needs a more suitable guardian (the doctor himself) and a better place to live (with the doctor and his family).
Dr. Finch’s home is full of its own patients, both literally and figuratively. Agnes is his legal but not “spiritual” wife and a woman of a “regular” mindset. Hope is their old maid of a daughter, but takes after her mother more than father. Natalie, a year older than Augusten, is a pudgy girl who has been set a little too free by her father’s parenting. She and Augusten become best friends. Augusten also develops an extremely sexual relationship with one of Dr. Finch’s other “adopted” sons, Neil Bookman. Bookman is in his early thirties and is obsessively infatuated with Augusten to the point where the boy has “power” over the man.
The memoir depicts the antics of Augusten and his family, both biological and not. Eventually, upon the maturation of Augusten and Natalie, it follows them for a chapter and a half into their lives post-living with the Finches. The best way to describe the book as I’ve come to see it is as funnily disturbing. Almost every chapter carries an uncomfortable scene in it, but they’re sometimes funny and other times depressing or discomfiting. Although these scenes are there to show the dysfunctionality of his relationships, they—for the most part—work. The only ones that I found unnecessary were the overly graphic sex scenes between Augusten and Bookman. Understandably, Burroughs is trying to demonstrate how vivid the situation still lingers in his memory and how much it affects him; yet at the same time, I don’t see the need for the description for each scene, considering how Bookman is hardly mentioned after his sudden disappearance. It’s as if he had no true affect on Augusten other than his realizing of his physical sexuality. If that’s the case, then, I don’t see a point to the extraneously graphic sex scenes here; if, however, there is more to Bookman and Augusten’s relationship that stems from their sex, then I would understand the inclusion of more than a couple scenes.
Aside from the gratuitously descriptive sexcapades, I loved Running with Scissors. I thought Burroughs did a fantastic job of being entertaining, heartbreaking, disturbing, and funny all at the same time.
I think there’s something the matter with me. Of the majority of my friends I’ve made at school who are into the same literature, television shows, movies, and music as myself, I’ve noticed that I was likely the only one who doesn’t become as emotionally invested in characters and story-lines the way they do. Of course I love seeing how everything plays out, who does what, and how the story has changed from its beginning, but I’m not going to complain, become indignant and enraged, or sad about how my opinion fares against another’s. I don’t want to call it stupid because what one person does with the things one enjoys is one’s own business, yet I would like the same courtesy reciprocated. Because of this, I’m slowly but surely trying to guard my interests so that I don’t have to deal with the wrath of others who disagree with how I feel. This is not how things should be, and there should be an open conversation about everything because that is how one learns; but alas, this is not so. Therefore, as of this moment, I like nothing.