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Thursday, August 1, 2013

Late Night Lament

So, it is not exactly late in the night as the title suggests. I realize this. However, in addition to forming informal sentences that begin with coordinating conjunctions or show overall sketchy grammar, I will be acquainted with my bed in a matter of minutes. Maybe an hour. Before that, I'd like to share my inconceivably foolish sorrows. And some thoughts on various pieces of information floating through my mind.
First off, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind? Amazing film. Please do yourself the pleasure of watching it from beginning to end. I would go into more detail, but, remember that bed? This will all be one massive paragraph, so don't expect convenient breaks where you can just stop reading the post if you find it dull. Then again, you are no mindless drone. Stop now, if that's what you want. But what do you really want in the end? Life, although there are numerous branches in its course, has one ultimate conclusion. I also watched Glengarry Glen Ross--another incredible film that I highly recommend--and, in it, Al Pacino lures his clientele in by discussing inconsequential miscellany to ease them into purchasing real estate. He is one cool cat, which is a simple way of expressing my admiration for what he did with Ricky Roma. This performance is the epitome of Al Pacino's career: sharp, intimidating yet charming, ruthlessly articulate, and persistent. Every character he portrays is persistent, whether he is thirsty for power as Michael Corleone or merely a blind colonel who wants to be recognized as Frank Slade. Hoo-ahh! He was nominated for Glengarry Glen Ross, as well as for when he played Frank Slade in Scent of a Woman. That same year, two nominations. Why didn't he win for Best Supporting Actor? The Academy is greedy and eager to please. Why give Al Pacino--an actor who proved his indubitable craft in the past and was outrageously ignored each and every time--two Oscars in one year? He'll be back for the Honorary one. Oh, will he? Another tremendous performance in Glengarry Glen Ross was Jack Lemmon as the tragic Shelley "The Machine" Levene. He wasn't even nominated, those Academy bastards. As "The Machine", Jack Lemmon practically crawled to attain the esteem he was once showered with in his prime; now, as an elderly salesman whose time has passed, his only victory is transient on account of shitty leads. These "leads" are people to whom the salespeople can sell their land to. I think. Knowing the in-depth specifics is unnecessary, unless you want to show off in front of your fellow audience members. Don't be a douche. Yes, that word has entered my vocabulary. Have to keep up with the times. The film is absolutely terrific. The entire ensemble deserves a statuette of recognition, really. (Nomination for Screen Actors Guild Award? No.)
Anyway, since it's getting late, I'll get to the personal disclosures. As you certainly are unaware, I've been under the scrutiny of my loved ones who have transferred their burden to healthcare professionals. This concerns my physical and mental well-being. In the past year, I have dove into some ghastly routines that involve obsessive-compulsive disorder and what some people call "anorexia nervosa". My doctor made that point pretty clear by repeating it every time I went to visit. If my loved ones are reading this, they might disapprove of me being so personal or find it unbelievable that I appear to be denying that I had the illness. Well, the truth is: Yes, I was sick. Probably still am, considering how depressed I feel after my last visit. Since the "intervention", I've gained eight pounds, as of yesterday. It's been about three months, and everyone is positively thrilled with my progress. Unfortunately, since, as I've admitted, I am sick, I don't see any reason for the glee. (Oh, do not get me started on Cory Monteith. His death is proliferating at a ridiculously pointless rate. He died of a drug overdose. Do not turn him into an admirable figure. Glee is awful.) When I read that scale, I felt my mind sending pessimistic signals to my heart and body, urging me to return to that frightening weight I saw three months ago. Perhaps by writing this all down and sharing with strangers, the plague that consumes my mind will evaporate somehow. Maybe not. Maybe I will always have this mental hindrance, preventing me from fully enjoying what this short life has to offer. It's not as if I will surrender to the plague and attend community college or join a rehab clinic, for I still have the ambitious plan to go to Georgetown University, but this illness will remain within my subconscious. While it helps me from becoming that chubby kid I used to be (even admitting that hurts my mind), it also as the ability to turn me into a premature corpse. As Ricky Roma says, our life is looking forward or it's looking back. What we do for the moment, for now, is up to us. All this waste of a mental illness--this fucking maniacal plague that pressures me into deciding how a fucking remote should be positioned on my fucking couch--it will endure until I die. Yes, I will die. That's the most terrifying fact and irony. You live your life just so you can approach the end that is death. And why continue on this journey of life in a manner that will bring me closer to the door? Why not indulge in the necessary nutrition I need? I hate regret, and I hate resistance. The physical labor is not at all difficult--I had to eat whatever I wanted to return to a healthy weight, and I'm not even there yet. I am still underweight for my height, remarkably, though I feel more bloated than I did three months ago, or even three weeks ago. I like the feeling of emptiness, but I like the taste of delicacies even more. (Saying that hurts my mind, but the truth will scare off the plague.) What is nearly impossible is the struggle with my mind. Mental incapabilities--this fucking obsessive-compulsive and self-deprecating mirror issues--are close to irrevocable. Irreparable, I should say. How I sit down in a chair. How I eat my meals, and when. How I walk to avoid cracks or carpets or just certain spots I think are pits into obesity. It all sound insane, and it is. Writing this down, I honestly feel some sort of spirit leaving my head. Maybe sharing does help. Or maybe it's a headache forming, warning me that it will never go away. I don't know. The future is out of my reach, and the past is well beyond my interference. What I do next, like now, is all I can determine. If everything happens for a reason, this illness must be some sort of life lesson that will propel me into a brighter future where I can deal with stress better or whatever. Life is a short gift that I want to spend with loved ones and with the knowledge and success I desire. And happiness is definitely something I'd be interested in, too.

Also, I watched Guy Ritche's ingenious and adrenaline-rushingly rapid-fire Snatch.
I'd like to express my deepest sympathies for the loss of a great actor who could swear with flair.
Since no one else seemed to be willing to give him a proper exaltation of his talent.

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