a film better known as Bride Wars. No self-respecting woman in today’s age would act this way. My parents are watching this, behind me, and the obsessed nature of the main characters penetrate Beck on full volume. The stench of oppressing self-esteem issues is strong enough to make me vomit. I want to spit on the people who gave this the “okay”.

I nearly lost it, earlier. Not much has changed, but I’m getting into the nocturnal habits, again, which will call for a week of the strangest sensations and head-rushes. By the time I get used to it, vacation will end, and I’ll have to sleep through nights. Fuck.

Assassin’s Creed 2 is quite an improvement on the wonderful things from the original. It also successfully carries off a cinematic approach, like an action/fiction period piece. I really love the hell out of it, despite the sometimes shitty climbing controls. When I started, controls were tight, but it seems my character isn’t always fast enough to accept commands I try to give. Sometimes he can leap three feet backwards to another ledge behind him, while at other times the same button combination forces him to plummet from crippling heights. What a fucking pisser. What’s the use of being able to run through a crowd if you trip when you so much as dreamt about touching that very person who will trip you twenty years in advance.
I assume you’ll only know what I mean if you play the damn game, so ignore me if you haven’t. It’s a good one, though.

I didn’t get white-guilt watching Avatar, but I certainly feel the deepest, strongest surges of male-guilt from most of my favorite 90s singers. I used to want to be a girl, when I found most of my female friends were so level-headed. I figured their regular reminder of physical pain and emotional stress kept their perspectives intact. Seriously, how can a male grow up in the 90s and NOT envy women? Around here, though, so few guys can understand that men and women are of the same species, and that one is as much an object as the other. I’ve been called a feminist, and I suppose I am at times.

This really is the best, and only, time for me to be alive. In the recent years of this decade alone, we’ve witnessed the release of Watchmen, Star Trek, Iron Man, Dark Knight, Avatar, The Box, There Will Be Blood, Slumdog Millionaire, The Wrestler, Man on Wire, Wall-E, The Departed, No Country for Old Men, Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace… don’t get me started on the works from my childhood. In the future, I will be a member of the elite elderly, reminiscing over these golden days of film, while young cats I respect and consider beyond their own years mock the selection of my day, compared to their own. (A nudge to a conversation that most won’t understand, but I’m not worried, because “most of you” includes an estimated sum of two or three.

“Maybe I’ll meet someone who’ll love a loathsome, leather-faced emotional wreck, like myself, at college. In Memphis? In Canada? In Hell?
Shit, every time I wake up in the morning or enter a restroom, I feel panicked, like the long-since-ended show is still days behind schedule. I still feel the stings and aches from tearing myself away from performing. I want to go back, and I’ll be mother fucking DAMNED if I let myself watch it go away without moment’s notice.”

Vocal recording device is working out great. It doesn’t take too much energy to keep it going, and the way I use it, a pair of batteries lasts about a month. I’d like to edit my recordings and put them into posts in place of texts, every now and then, but there are some issues:

I have a poor vocal presence when not performing dramatically.

I’ll have to pay this damn site to feature audio files in posts.

Most of my recorded notes and conversations aren’t within contexts that I can assume others who aren’t present at each recording will be able to understand or have the patience to continue listening.

The primary subjects and relevance of my notes vary through a single day, like lights at a rave club.

With these things, I still think I can set up an interesting audio blog (podcast) with practice, help, and ingenuity. It’ll be one of the first in many steps to achieve my wild imaginings of FrankFest and The Fester, two intertwined dream projects of mine. One is a cross-country film festival occurring in multiple major cities at once, and the other is a forum/news source for nerds of the arts.
At the Memphis College of Art, where I hope to complete an admission application soon, I may meet others with similar goals and ambitions with whom I can fuel these ideas together, while experimenting in acting and aesthetics.
Imagine the birth of an empire: a handful of college kids put everything into a series of comic and film projects, each new thing funded by the last, each of many future goals feeding each other to grow a series of companies under my command, producing films, printing magazines and comics, posting news and hiring the freshest, coolest, best young talents to act, direct, edit, blog, report, illustrate, and probably most importantly, write. Until I reach a point of status to face public media ridicule, and the trolls will be begging for the slimmest chance of backlash.
I’ll open a restaurant that serves Paul Newman’s salad dressing. Pictures of me shaking the hands of the greatest modern talents will center every booth, like a collection of “I met the president” photographs.
Clever self-taught street artists will demonize me, and use me as the center of their popular statements of outrage.
Widely accepted rumors of my false, nonsensical devious sexuality will be the image of my later life, while those who crack jokes regard my craft with dignity and awe, and never connect the dots.
I’ll strike fear and anger in the hearts of young rebels who want what I will have, and never realize it until one, like myself, will accomplish it.
My select quotes will be recited as often as pop-culture will reference my utter disgust for Robert Frost’s work.
My ideas and style will appear so unique to the youths who observe my work decades after their time, that homages to me will become a standard, and eventually the norm. In this way, I will command the human genius and rule terrestrial art from beyond the grave. Even my persona will be swayed by the years following my death, and all that will remain is a legend of a character, who will be seen with every fiber of greatness that I hope to see in myself.

Smith, I hope you read all of that.

HELP!
Lost the information sheets for the art history projects, miraculously, though it isn’t the favorable type of miracle, and I need to snatch some copies FAST!

On an easier, calmer note:

I, again, woke on the couch, with a dead right arm. No pain to speak of, so there was no need to flail and thrash around, again. Feeling’s back, and the disorientation was incredibly brief.
And last night, I dreamed. I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever enjoy a good dream again, and I did.
It must’ve been a long one, because I seem to recall maybe two events, and I remember having many perspectives of each one. You know, looking at it cinematically, one scene from one perspective, the next in another, back to the first in a whole new perspective, back to the second… it should take a long time to accomplish this sense of omniscience.

I played a couple of roles. Think I was a commercial actor and myself, when I wasn’t watching me from outside of my own head. While filming a commercial, I was damn sure that I knew exactly how it looked, like the cameras recording played the material in my head. I was with a girl, a beautiful, talented girl, smart and funny… yeah, you know, she was a composite of the various things I find attractive in women, most notably, her subtle behaviors and basic features may be modeled after someone I know in real life. Anyway, the two of us had to perform a conversation on camera, being ourselves, and work the product into it, somehow.
My recollection of these events may be incredibly off, but I’ve tried making sense of it all.
Before waking, I knew I’d wake up, and everything was blurring out, and I stayed focused on her for as long as I could, and she knew that I’d be leaving, because I could see how panicked she was about the world disappearing. Tried keeping me asleep by attempting to delay my departure from the astral form (“the astral form” being the best term to describe the embodiment, or lack thereof, when the mind leaves the body, in meditation, or in sleep) and it didn’t work.

I’ve got friends. Some are female.
There are many ways that the bodies and minds of humans can communicate, and I’ve had the luck to follow my gut and be glad I did.
Sometimes, my gut leaves me high-and-fucking-dry and in a panic, for me to scramble things together, and it becomes the biggest, ugliest mess since last week’s total fuck-up, until next week’s total fuck-up.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what I want.

Today, for absolutely no reason, I was in a relatively good mood. And in this relatively good mood, I took it upon myself to indulge my pleasant fantasies: the most pleasant of which is to have conversation with my dear friends, with nothing else worth doing but smile and know how great such a moment is. Things used to be that way so often, and now such moments are scarce and fleeting. She has a big smile, and I’ve got my big, dumb, ugly grin, and there’s no need to talk, and I wonder why she looks at me strangely sometimes, and I always hope that maybe she’s thinking the same way I am, and the moment lasts longer than the usual half-minute or so.
And the day’s been coated in very mild sugar, and that wonderful concrete texture I love so much is everywhere, and I haven’t even left the house since… like, Tuesday, man. It’s all groovy, dude. Just can’t wait to see that bright’n shiny smile of hers.

Diet’s been for shit, again, lately.

I’m really looking forward to getting a digital recorder, to document conversations and ideas and shit. Stellar stage-show visuals playing to Daft Punk. When I get into my usually entertaining conversations, it’ll be there, to listen back to. Might possibly put together the simplest format podcast online. I can’t post things like that on this site without paying for it, so I’ll find another way to do so, when the time calls for it.
Hell, I may never get my hands on something like that. I recall the traumatic events that my few-hundred-dollar camcorder followed, before being cast away, nay lost, to the fate it might find in my cluttered and violently hazardous bedroom.

Drinking diet cola’s made my piss feel like citric acid.

Fuck the typos.

EDIT
Yeah, 1:06AM, and mom’s laughing like a fucking idiot down the hallway. Tells me something: they’re gonna fuck, tonight. Goddamn it. Can’t they, like, rent a hotel? I fucking hate being able to hear them. This always takes away my desire to do anything. They sicken me.
And yeah, I know the difference between fucking and making love, and neither of my parents are in a physical condition adhering to the requirements to fuck, and they love each other, and all that shit, but it’s quite literally the ugliest image to put into my head, having seen a grand variety of porn, civilian casualty photographs, suicide videos, harlequin babies, and brutal facial scars, all by the loving graces of the internet. My parents fucking is the ugliest thing I can imagine. (That isn’t to say that I undermine other things that are far more grotesque, I’m just telling you how bad it is from my perspective, a common theme to blogs.) Trust me when I say that I know there are some pretty bad things out there, most of which I’ll never see, nor hear about. I speak with anger.

Dad got a new DVD player, added HD channels to the cable service, to go along with the new television monitor we’ve got, now, and I can finally read texts onscreen.

I love film. I love the stage, though I want to take a long break from it. After seeking help for a possible chemical imbalance, I hope to be a better friend to the people I care about.

Looking at the way I have been acting, I would hate myself, if I were not myself.

QUICK EDIT:

Do I really hate myself? I hate the sight of me, but I’m fascinated by my appearance. I detest my own company, but I never quarrel with myself, in a thobvious sense. Do I hurt myself out of spite, or do I plead for intervention? Do I really ever hurt myself, considering?
I’ve been told that I need to embrace my flaws. I don’t really like them, though I’m aware of a few, that I can name, if I’m not mistaken in their nature. I wish there were some solid reliability I could place in my emotions and opinions, though I know that they’re all my own, which isn’t the matter in question, anyway; isn’t there anything I can do without feeling remorse or regret?
If it is true that ‘to live is to suffer’, ‘all human suffering comes from the self’, and to live and experience human life is more than exposure to only negative or only positive events and feelings, then isn’t the logical conclusion for me to stoop wondering about these things and continue doing what I want to do?
That is assuming that I am already doing what I want to do, and that I know what I want, at all. I don’t know what I want.
That isn’t true. I want to eat, occasionally, drink what I fancy, watch what I please, acquire the time and space to read at my own leisure, while listening to music fitting my various tastes, face a bitter conversation with people I behold in disdain, spend as much time as possible in folly with friends whom I love more than myself, and criticize every hypocritical moment of my pathetic, joyous, uncomfortable life.
I want nothing to change, to be in a stand-still. To get the chance to turn my accused “best years of my life” into just as I’m told it should be.
Perhaps I am excited about the things to come out of fear of what I’ll lose. I must learn to depend on myself, soon, or everything I know about the disgusting state of humanity will go to waste, and the glorious ideas of art, tranquility and love will die with me, on every wet sidewalk that nobody ever thinks to walk down.
We are all connected, but our individuality, which unites us in a natural sense, separates us emotionally, and mentally, makes me feel alone, and that nobody cares. Nobody cares.
What is it; “to care”? “to love”? “to understand”?
Does everything have to come from selfishness?

We’re all selfish.

I shouldn’t be.

What makes you so special?

I’m not. Everybody else is. They get the privilege of helping hands and harsh experience. I’m always going to want what other people have. The praise that follows everyone I’ve ever known, and the love given in return for their mastery of art, in the various forms they have steered it. It’s not good enough to be “good”. I’m not good enough to be anything, am I?
I’m never good enough, for me, therefor the world.
Why is that?

Some stress, some strange decisions, some exciting developments, some sorrowful inner turmoil; it’s all the same, I suppose. I’ve been sluggish, so if you’re following, sort of, you know, don’t stop, because I’m not gone or done, yet. I’m just in a bit of a rut, I guess. It’s all cool, and so are you, yeah?

Check out The Tobolowsky Files.

Original Emo sits in front of his fucking Vista, thinking about someone he thought he’d gotten over, not that there’d ever been anything between them, forgetting all of the many possibilties ahead of him, listening to a Seether song, remembering that there was a time when he listened to this song while working along side her, getting all fucking depressed, and as if the past day hasn’t been lonesome enough, he logs onto his blog to bitch about it. Nobody reads, nobody cares, and nobody notices, and I’m so self-indulgent, and I want… I don’t know what I want. I never know what I want. I never know anything. What a fucking great waste of time this was for you. I hope you choke on the shit and fucking die. Maybe I’ll join you, and you can ostricize and smear shit and trickle piss on my quivering soul as you please. Bottles and rocks for everyone. Fuck you.

One of my favored possibilities for a career, reviewing movies and entertainment news, is part of an industry in crisis, and three great minds have come together in a discussion about it. Listen to the audio on Dave Chen’s site, here:

http://www.davechen.net/2009/10/conversation-on-blogging-ethics-and.html

If you’re confused, read the material Dave has set up to prepare you for the conversation. If we are to keep the internet a respectful place, we must all respect each others’ intentions.

For those of you who read and keep track of my life, as I report it, I am terribly confused about what to do when I leave high school, and online ethics are a part of that confusion. If you listen, you’ll understand why. I do not have the diction or creativity, as it turns out, to express all of these ideas on my own, if they are even in any sort of abundance at all.

October 14, 2009
sometime after 7:00AM
The Zutons are golden.

I feel lonely and useless, no matter what I do.

2:22PM
I’ve just found the words to say this, and maybe a month of experiencing:
I have been in an emotionally gray spot. So many strong feelings are rushing forth at once, without provocation, and I’m either too dull or distracted to interpret them all at once, so this mass of emotional energy is…
in between any discernible, definable, recognizable, possible extremes.
It almost feels like the gears and cogs are grinding, and the metal’s soft, and the clock has to slow down or stop, before it breaks. The sharps points and edges are beaten, ground, bent, and dulled.

8:44PM
Smith has me reading Sprout, by Dale Peck.

I do not ever feel like writing, anymore, but I’m writing, now, because Sprout put me “in the mood”.

Everything bores.
Everything depresses.
If I don’t hang out with Colt, soon, I’ll scream.

Dudes, I got curious about how easy it’d be to find me online, and I Googled “Blobguy”, my online persona. Holy shit! My blog, Spill page, and Deviant page came up first!

I’m a pretty important person.

I watched a thin, tan, translucent spider with black joints spinning a smaller black spider trapped in a web, behind the kitchen faucet, beneath the window overlooking the backyard. I watched, and realized something.
Any other teenager would make a big deal out of this and bore everyone else with their bullshit “philosophies”, using the spiders as an excuse for trying to appear intelligent to the dimwitted and disconnected.
What the fuck is happening to our nation’s youth? It’s being fucked over, that’s what. The only difference between your hippies and our hipsters is: we don’t know that we’re fucked no matter what, and we have more drugs than you. Shit, under ethical treatment, we get pumped full of happy pills that shrink our perspectives while communicative therapy and healthy diets are all we really need to stay afloat, and neither of them have to cost any more than buying good food and being open with people.

This is nothing new.
So why are so many of my peers BLIND to this shit?
Because they’re distracted, easily, and the pills and salty fats don’t help us, there. We’re not completely fucked. Not all of us are idiots. The fucked part is that most of the cats who dig the knowledge abuse it, instead of respecting it and using it to benefit the majority. These aren’t new ethics.

And none of that is new, either.
So why am I the only teenager in my city who voices these things? Those of us who’ve accepted all of these truths for a long time are apparently few or silent, here in South Carolina, or at least in the military community of Goose Creek.
Why bother with all of this shit?
Who cares?

Nobody.
And, fuck it, I just did the teen thing, anyway. Maybe I’ll hint toward committing suicide and other trendy teenage bullshit.

What was a joke at the end of last year is now a real holiday, folks, though it isn’t printed on calendars, so you’d better take it down now, before you forget!

September 18 is officially “Make-Bob-Feel-Like-Shit Day”!

Make some touching cards to remind everyone to “cheer up, at least you’re not Bob,” and toss in some of your favorite insults. Use today as an opportunity to take out some serious frustration on Goose Creek’s smartest, most idiotic teenage masochists. Had a bad day? It’s probably Bob’s fault! Show that bastard what’s what!

Really? The only viewer of my fucking blog, all goddamn day was searching for the phrase “fucking angles”? Fuck that! Fuck you! Fuck!