Just me and an eight ounce glass of seltzer. Sweat seeps out my pores. There’s the big looming question–Pretend to have fun tonight with a bunch of “friends” or go off somewhere far away, get wasted in a diner, fuck a disease-infested whore somewhere and then come back months later, bearded, speak only in Farsi and just sit there selling guns, crack anything to keep me afloat, put some money away as three months later my AIDS-infested baby will pop out of the bitch’s womb. Hard choice if you ask me.
2013! Woo-hoo! I can hardly wait. Here’s how I see it. I’m gonna shit honesty. Yeah, this might turn some of you off but really…do I fucking care? I wasn’t put here to have everyone on this planet like me. As a matter of fact, I could do a little toilet flushing. Get in. My fingers are riding the handle. Go back to your homes, your countries, as your energy does not truly resonate with me.
Feels like eons that I’ve been taking care of one too many people. How it felt as if I was walking on egg shells, fearful that any crack, I’d fall through a haunted abyss. Mid-flight, an ogre would gobble pieces of me up. As I’d take my last breath, that ogre would be the individual I was tending to. How fucking convenient!
2013, what is it? It’s the year of me deciding whether or not I got time for you or not. Be prepared to wait a long fucking time because ladies, gentlemen and ogres in disguise, I’m taking care of myself first. My health, my writings, my passions, my everything. Call me a narcissist, my middle finger will be waiting for you.
So, happy fucking new year!
I need a documentary filmmaker to follow me around. Nobody in their right mind would believe some of the shit that goes down. The gist of it…there’s a Bermuda Triangle of communication, where emails and phone calls just obliterate. Some examples. The one minute plus film I made a few days ago, I had submitted to something called Artist Strike. Thrice, they were contacted but heard nothing back. Not even a simple, “Thank you for the submission but this doesn’t match what we’re looking for.” Another example, I’m in the process of producing a video for a local sports supplement store. Put an ad on craigslist for a bodybuilder. It’s been up for several weeks now. Finally, one individual emailed me at four in the morning with a photograph. Looked perfect, so I responded. He, like all my correspondents, disappeared.
This is no longer angering to me. It’s totally absurd. Since I can’t film this myself (without some odd contraption, that I don’t have, attached to my body) I urge a documentary (or mockumentary) filmmaker to contact me. Email me at email@example.com.
I have this tendency to take what’s already written and do an overhaul. Although I’m trying to get out of this pattern, it’s essential an overhaul occurs. Why? Something else presses me…
Memories from my most recent job. Although it was rather nightmarish (for four years, every day, nonstop), I’ve decided to take a satirical look at it. The characters from the Descent script will be transferred over to this more personal story.
In the meantime, I will continue to post the script in the order in which it was written. Here it goes —
INT. CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY
CHARLIE, unshaven and bug-eyed paces the room. An unlit
cigarette dangles in his hand. He charges at Damian the
moment he enters.
My God! That woman with the nice
hair, didn't seem happy to see me.
What's up with that? Oh, she's
your lady friend you were talking
about. How's everything going
with you and her?
Damian pours some whiskey into a glass.
"Peachy"? Great word. Listen,
I've been up all night, man. I
just figured it out. I should say
fuck it to comedy and write books.
Adventures like Tolkien. What do
you say? I mean like fuck, Damian,
I'm not getting any younger. You
know my birthday was on Tuesday.
Turned thirty-one. Not that you
Damian raises his glass of whiskey.
Alcohol? Are you crazy? It's like
12:15. What the fuck man? Why
would I want to drink? I barely
ate breakfast. Just a tiny bowl of
Greek yogurt with bananas. You
ever have that combo? Greek
yogurt and bananas? It's great.
You should try it.
Damian takes a seat at the head of the conference table. His
face stricken with horror.
What? You're scaring me. Stop
scaring me. You're looking at me
Charlie, I need you to shut the
fuck up and sit down.
Without hesitation, Charlie takes a seat.
Okay. Hi! What's up?
I'm dropping you.
What? I thought we were tight man.
Aren't we friends? What's this all
about? You can't be serious. How
is this possible?
I'm dropping everyone.
You're not suicidal are you?
Please tell me you're not suicidal.
If you're suicidal you should get
some help. Lots of help.
All sorts of professionals out
there that can help you with this
kind of stuff. Tell me you're not
I'm not suicidal.
Wooh! Well, that's a relief. But
you're dropping everyone? Why?
Time? Time for what?
EXT. WATERFRONT - DAY
The day couldn't be cloudier.
Damian, in torn khaki shorts and a fluorescent tank top,
drags a row boat on the muddied sand. He heads toward the
The boat catches onto a hump in the sand.
Damian tugs but falls forward. He leaps to the front of the
boat, lifts it from the hump. Continues pulling the boat
toward the water. At the water's edge, he jumps in the row
boat. Paddles away.
EXT. RURAL ROAD - EVENING
The pavement's cracked. Regardless, Damian, out of breath,
saunters about. Knapsack slung over his shoulder.
A dark figure runs across the street.
Fatigued, Damian grabs a tree branch.
Damian yanks his hand off the branch. Blood pools up on each
finger. He licks the blood.