I hate to give the impression that I spend my days sulking, but this ridiculous journal has become the place for me when I have some woe to spew. So many of my complaints about life are summarized by that: I have no one to share my troubles with, and that is the whole of my troubles. However, writing has always been soothing to me, and every writer scribbles in hope that it will someday be read by the right person.
Another potential companion (the one I mentioned earlier) jumped ship on me this past weekend. I must have done something wrong during the conversation, failed to amuse, because she begged off the call by saying she was going "away." And that was the last I heard of her, despite e-mails and contact attempts.
Immediately following that, my closest female friend expressed long-hidden romantic intentions for me, intentions I did not share. If I do not draw a line, I will be stringing her along. I must separate, cause myself pain, in order to avoid her continued long-term suffering. Now, one of my closest friendships is in a mess, and I remain mockingly without prospects for love.
I am left calling my mother at three in the morning.
Immediately following that, my good friend at work received a $40,000 check for his screenplay. He will be going to part-time. I will lose one more reason to go to work, and will add one more set of duties to steal writing time. And still, no raise to speak of, nothing to ease the sting of the lengthening days and increasing stress. When your screenwriting friend gets a check for $40,000, you cannot help but wonder what the hell you're doing with your life as a screenwriter.
Well, what I've been doing is, I've been spending every waking minute working on the compilation DVD that we're having professionally pressed, "Transmission from Sedna." It will have all of our (Misplaced Planet's) short films on it. A two disc set. Aside from the documentaries, I wrote them all. And we'll be pushing those to raise money for the short film we're shooting in January, Zaniness Ensues, which I wrote, which I'm directing, which is based on a feature length screenplay of mine, which will be again rehearsed this weekend.
I think all these things are the right moves to make. I think they're all good career choices. They're all things to be proud of. But day after day, getting up, going to the office, waiting to get home, then going to my room, working until bedtime... it's a lonely life. That's the truth of it. It's lonely. And I've been living it for so, so, so long. Four years now. Four years.
And in those four years, I've done the dating thing from every angle. Online, through friends, trying to resurrect old crushes, going to parties, going to bars, approaching people at work... God, I played the game to exhaustion in New York, and it's only gotten harder in LA. In New York, I was always having the heartbreak of ending a relationship with someone far more into me than I was into them. Here, I can't get beyond the first phone call.
It's not wonder that I'm most happy when my creative pursuits block out these harsh things. I've become something I pity: someone who needs to keep busy to keep from reflecting. I don't do it by watching TV or playing video games, I do it by writing and drawing and making websites and films. I've given up on dating a thousand times, I've become an expert at putting it out of my head, at cherishing the pleasures of independence and solitude. But now and then, the loneliness bubbles to the surface and demands attention. It seems to be frequently this time of year, as my birthday nears.
Around this time of year, I want a lap to lay my head in, to rest in until the spinning plates come softly to rest. Someone drawn closer to me when I admit my troubles, not driven away. Someone who doesn't demand entertainment of me. Someone warm and comforting and beautiful. I've been alone for a long, long, UNINTERRUPTED time, and I feel like the "best years of my life" are slipping through my fingers. This is not melodrama. The fact is, I will remember nothing but a fog of motion, devoid of emotional touchstones to tack them to memory. When days are all the same, differentiated by only the project at hand, the days are forgotten. And so much of my life is forgotten.
And I feel rage and desperation building up. I demand that someone to save me. I need an old friend to swoop in. A couple to set me up. A mad woman to force me into something dangerous. A magic girl to think I'm special and worth pursuit. I'm tired of being the motivator, the doer, the leader, the driving force. I'm tired of making the decisions. That is how I got here: I'm everyone's respected collaborator and leader, and no one's vulnerable, human, special connection. Everyone expects distant heroism of me -- I want someone who will be a hero FOR me, at least in this one avenue.
My friends are all getting married, or living in long-term, stable relationships. I'm serious. All of them (except the friend with a crush on me). They don't remember what it's like to face emptiness at the end of every day, to begin each day wondering why nothing seems to happen for you. And I don't know ANYONE, mark my word, ANYONE, who's been single and celibate as long as I have been. I'm stronger than most, but I'm pretty sure I'm corroding from the inside. This beam looks massive, but in a year's time, a sharp strike with crumble it, revealing dry rot and termites.
Love just seems to happen for so many people, and the truth is, I can't even find anyone to be interested in. There's not even a prospect to hang a false crush on. My life is empty of women, year after year after year after year. How many places must I live, how many friends must I make, projects must I start, groups must I join, jobs must I have -- before I brush up against one possible candidate to capture my imagination? To add a little comfort and fulfillment to my life? Do I really have to dive into endless debt, and apply to grad school, just to end the solitude? And why should it work any better than college?
And that... is my exorcism.
I'm sure it's too long for anyone to read. So be it. Let my pitiable predicament hide in clear view, blurred in a quick scroll by. And if you read this, thanks. Now go recruit a woman for Wilder.