Friday, April 21, 2006

I'm Supposed To Be Writing

I've got a screenplay to work on. I made a rough outline while taking my first screenwriting class in 2003. Once I started writing the story of my parents' divorce, I got into it. I liked writing and I liked what I was writing. The way it flowed, and even looked, on the page. My instructor gave me positive reinforcement. I thought, briefly, that I was onto something.

Then, my class ended. I had the best intentions of continuing and finishing my script. I made a schedule to be sure to fit in time to write and reflect. But, naturally, I went back to what I do best. Slacking. Dreaming of great heights I have yet to achieve. Watching tv and movies and pretending to soak everything in so I could call it 'research'. I made many promises to myself to start up again, but I kept pushing the dates and letting them pass by.

In three years time I had taken more classes on script development, the entertainment industry and film history. That story, though...MY story. It was still in the back of my mind. Quietly filed away along with several other ideas that hadn't ever been written down. I wanted to go back to it, but I just couldn't.

Then I started dating my boy. He comes from a well educated, history-loving, artistic, literary family. Everyone writes. Poetry, fiction, blogs...they've done it all. There was a local screenplay contest coming up. He was very encouraging and inquisitive, as were his parents. In January I made a feverish bid to finish at least a first draft for the contest. I'd finally be able to say I'd completed a script. I'd finally have some solid evidence that this film obsession wasn't full of shit. You know I didn't make the February 15 deadline, right? And to think, those three were so looking forward to me making it.

This is why I've never told my mom about the screenplay. She would care. Mom would want to know how it was going. Just like my boy and his folks. As it stands I feel bad enough not having updates for his parents. I can't stand the idea of letting my mom down too.

Since the deadline passing I've written twice, getting to a solid page 50. Around page 30 I headed into un-outlined territory. It felt like a good place so I went with it, then came to a natural stopping point. I didn't know where to go next. Back to the outline? Revise the entire second half? So I decided to take a break and think through it. We know what this means, right? I've completely ignored my script, for over a month now, like a red-headed stepchild.

This is it, people. This weekend I start the really hard and painful work. I have to sit with it, past text and blank pages right in my face. I'll have to face the fear of failure and the fear of possible success. I'll need to stew over it and sweat over it. I may have to blind write. I fucking hate that. Just writing with no real idea of where it's going. Getting all the crap out on paper so you can get to the good stuff that's buried beneath your fears and insecurities. Yeah, that's what I'll need to do.

I can feel it. Wish me luck.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Where I Give the Internet Too Much Information

You know internet, I'm glad we're friends. So much so that I'm going to test the limits of said friendship by relaying some personal stuff you might not even want to hear. Just so I can tell it to somebody and get it off my chest.

I used to have a well trained body. Monday through Friday, between 5:30 and 6:30pm do you know what would happen, internet? I'd go to the bathroom. I was regular internet, and it was amazing! I don't even know how I did it. One day while noticing some coworkers potty habits I realized I had somehow trained myself to (delicately, now) drop a deuce only during those specific times of the work week.

This was a fascinating moment. I always had deuce difficulties growing up. Overflowing toilets one day, rampant constipation the next. Between the two extremes I used more old towels and Fletcher's Castoria than any other child EVER. Don't ask how I know. Just trust me.

Well, to be an adult and have all that craziness settled? Absolutely the best gift of working adulthood given to anyone EVER. This fact is close to verification from Guinness record people. Do not distrust its veracity.

My issue now is so radically different. Ever since my first vacation of the year (we love Austin!) about a month ago, I've been all out of wack. Sad, internet. So very, very sad.

At first I assumed it was just a holdover from my trip. I never doody out of town. EVER. I don't know why this is, just that it's a fact of my life. Maybe my subconscious is afraid of stopping up some innocent, unassuming hotel toilet and so it locks me up for the duration of my travels. Who knows? Anyway, I had two days back without going to work. When I returned to the job I had a scare. I had to go, and bad...and at 11:30 in the morning.

What!? What the hell is this?!?! The trend has continued. 10am, 1pm, 7am (before my clock even goes off!), 4pm, and on and on. Will this madness never end? I miss the old days so much, internet. I could count on never worrying about overflowage away from my home potty. I never needed to sit and stew with my thoughts for long periods of time because I lacked bathroom reading. On the other hand, I have become well acquainted with our friendly work accessible toilet. In the days of yore, before I needed the private time, it frightened me. There are windows, mottled glass with a leaf pattern to protect privacy. A corner is broken out and reveals a cobweb. This bathroom is completely separate from our regular ladies loo. In its own single toilet/sink room. Because it's not a stall, the door is waaaaaaaaaay over there when you sit down. Therefore, it's IMPERATIVE to make sure you've locked yourself in prior to doing your bidding. There are also strange green stains under the commode I'd rather not think about.

This place has become my refuge. I see no turning back, internet. Maybe I should bring magazines for next time.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Let's Get Drunk, WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Wow. There is nothing like a work sponsored happy hour with a three hour all-you-can-eat/drink special to bring out the best (worst) in co-workers. NOTHING!

Me and my boy set out late on Thursday so only had an hour and a half to get our $25 worth outta the deal. Not being much of a drinker myself, I ate my way out of another pair of pants. Meanwhile, my boy had 5 (totally different) martinis, 1 margarita and a beer. Can you imagine how stone cold drunk my boy was? Maybe you don't know enough about him yet. Let me relay an excerpt of our conversation as an example.

Me: "Oh my God. You are really drunk!"
My boy (whispering/slobbering in my ear): "I would like to make sweet loving fuck to you."
Me: "Unh hunh..."

Anyhoodle. My work buddies were there. AM came without her fiance' because he was an ass the night before and she didn't want to see his face while she was trying to have fun. My supervisor NM came, staked out a bar stool and didn't move all night. BFF AR and SW organized the shindig to raise money for us and brought a huge crowd of friends. Unfortunately they both found themselves getting bitched out by a bartender when a patron lost his dinner all over the floor, and went right back to drinking without hesitation. Oh, and that patron? The father of my good friend J, who had already mortified the poor girl when he changed pants in the middle of the room for all to see. Yay, drunk people are so much fun! Luckily, our NM heard some of the bitch-out and put Mr. Mean Bartender in his place. We all love our NM, she kicks ass without even trying!!

This particular bartender was a total asshat tiddyfuck. Yes. I said it. We all paid $25 to suck down as much food and drink as we could, right? Well, this assjack got pissed because people were taking too much food, according to him. Why was he paying attention? More importantly, who cares? If they paid their presidents they should be able to take as much food at a time as they want. The bar's job is simply to refill the food table. M'kay? And about not letting folks take more than one drink at a time? That, if nothing else, elects ken-doll bartender dude to the post of Supreme Bungholery. Yeah, that's it. Also, fuckface, next time the all-you-can-drink portion is 5 minutes next to done and people rush the bar to get their last orders in...DO NOT IGNORE THEM FOR THAT FULL FIVE MINUTES JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE APPARENTLY A LAZY SCHLONGHEAD. Are we clear, blondie? We should never do another event there.

In other news, Tux attacked me several times on Saturday night and then took to clawing/biting our feet as we tried to sleep. WTF!?!?! I guess the fact that we feed and house and play with that little fucker isn't enough for him. Any cat educated people out there know why a 7 month old kitten would do such a nasty, beastly thing? Even better, know how we can stop it?


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