November 7th, 2007

screenwriter, Kightlinger, hate

cough cough

I don't know what kind of bug or toad I have living inside my chest, but it finally got it's way. I'm home bound from work and swore I would sit myself down at my desk to write the great American screenplay. It seems, however, I am living in a toxic dump and I had to clean up a bit before I started to vanquish any glowing I might secrete at night. So here I am. Behind my desk, very cluttered with miscellaneous papers, bills, things to do, empty coffee cups, dust, strewn pens and pencils, bottles of ink, notes, etc.

Everything where it's supposed to be, I see. I update the yahoo membership profile. I dunno why. It just seemed so, so lame. I wanted to change the picture for my profile to this illustration of hands, but yahoo responded to my attempts with "Sorry. We don't do pictures (anymore)". So here I am. At my desk, sitting. Waiting for that awe inspiring vision to enlighten me so that I might open THE FILE. The file that has ramblings of gripes about my youth, anecdotes of my adolescents, morals to a story that could only be enjoyed by its teller.

While I kick myself over and over again for not noticing if the model who posed for these illustration had been wearing a wedding band, the clock ticks. The sun has disappeared behind the gloomiest of LA smog. I can't help myself. Why hasn`t somebody invented a grease–less popcorn to eat while enjoying the creation process of a hollywood romantic comedy? I lift myself up off the chair, trancelike, and head for the bathroom to wash my hands that smell like In & out hamburger.

screenwriter, Kightlinger, hate


(click for illustration)

I have that look on my face of a man coming home from work early to find his wife in bed with another man. Shocking! Rigor mortis has already set in and I can't let go of the cat which was meowing to be let into the house. It is around this time in my life that I just landed a steady job and things started to look a little better financially for me and the missus, but now… now the fear of getting a divorce because she's cheating totally puts me in a quandary.

I literally can't see anything from the denial I'm experiencing, and I trip over the hamburger somebody left on the floor in the kitchen, opening up a gash in my brow which leaves a trail of blood leading to Moe's. I am patched up with a butterfly bandage and sent on my way. I return to beg my wife not to leave me.

I suffer migrains for the next several years which puts a damper on our sex life. She continues to cheat in the marriage. I remain celibate, optimistic that she will come to her senses, for I only have eyes for her. People begin to wonder about me when I don't react to some of the bombshell divas seeking casual fun. The entire community takes pity on me. Even the gay community think I deserve a sympathy fuck. But temptation having always been one of my weaknesses, I don't let anybody near. I distance myself socially from people so I don't commit the same mistake. Obviously, I must've done something horrible I can't remember in my past that I should deserve such a miserable life.

People finally start to accept the concept of the cat in my hand. They see it as my seeing eye cat, as they should. Living in this hell on earth, the best form of guidance is a beast of burden with a link to the devil.