When Irish eyes are smiling...
Darts, Guinness, good friends. Joy to the world.
I'm 26, I'm getting more and more out of shape as the months go on, and all I want to do is relax. From a genetic standpoint, I should at least be motivated to build a life and family, but these days my ambitions are running shorter than a Pauly Shore movie lasts in theaters.
All the things I want: (shrinks say it's good to do this)
Financial Stability
Someone to love, who loves me back
Energy
Peace of mind (literally speaking)
On this list thing - Things that Bring Me Joy:
The big three up top
Wit
Music
A good movie, sometimes even a bad one
Natasha
Sleeping, which reminds me...
manic
Oswald was a fag.
Ok. This is killer. I have an opportunity. A GRAND opportunity. Someone in the industry wants to read my script, with the possible intent of purchase for production. Not a reader, not an agent. A full-fledged, working actor, with his own production company. And here I sit like a mouse in a hollow log, desperately trying to see if the owl is still hovering overhead. Afraid to make a single move for fear of dooming myself. I made that ego comment yesterday, but forgot to mention how it is tempered with self-doubt. Just write.
Just write.
JUST WRITE, DAMN IT!
But it's not enough.
It takes work. Hard work. And while I am familiar with the concept, it's not something that I pride myself on. I'm lazy, and scared. Co-dependant attributes that truly feed off one another. When you are lazy, it's easy to blame your lack of accomplishment on fear, and when you are afraid, lazy is a nice hot bath to take comfort in.
I know that my story is great. I know it could be huge. Can I write it? Will I write it?
Where's that ego when I need it?
manic
In an attempt to document my life through prose, poetry, lyrical mayhem, tomfoolery, ballyhoo, and all that, I've moved on from my feeble home-based leather-bound attempts into a digital field that might just keep me honest. Of course, I also thought that buying a copy of Final Draft was gonna turn me into Christopher McQuarrie. In any case, it should be interesting to see my line of progression from dilettante to supreme master of the Doogie Howser computer journal sect. Plus I have tried unsuccessfully for years to keep it a secret that I have a huge ego, and now I can go back and read and re-read myself to my narcissistic heart's content.
The only negative affect is the temptation to remove the more embarassing vittles of my story through post editing, which is a fully available feature of this ingenious device we thoughtfully call "the web" (with little or no irony, considering how we first practiced to deceive). So I am going to make a promise here, which should be treated like that of an incumbant candidate. I know I'm trusted a little, and also expected to lie a little. In either case I'll do my best for complete discolsure and honesty to a fault. Hopefully anyone I know who dips into this shitstorm of words will still respect me in the morning.
Oh, and look for rhyme long before any reason enters into the picture.
James Francis Hunt
manic till death
