Sometimes I feel like a Skylar Grey song. All the excess parts of me are removed only to have the good credited to someone else. No body wants to hear her variations, just the hooks mixed with grooves and beats with the nuances of modern hip hop. And I only have to look at my son to see that the good parts of me were passed on to him. And that is something of a magic trick. A case for immorality. While I’d rather be remember as a whole, I’m glad that parts of me will continue into this world.
A few years ago, I found myself at a fork in the proverbial road. Like Robert Frost, I pondered the consequences that came with each. Shrugging it off, I took the familiar path. And because I’m the sort who wonders, I thought a lot about the other road, mainly where’d I be at that present junction. My idea spawn a fictional blog that I never came around to keeping up with (it never started, actually, outside that I’m not hoarding the URL).
I found myself thinking about that other road, though it’s clear that no matter what path I chose, the ending would still be here. It might have just taken a little bit longer.
With my current situation in full motion, the idea came back. Where would I be if things had ended? Another idea, another fictional biographical story born. However, as I tweaked the kinks and holes, I realized I’m done trying to reinvent myself.
The story stopped being my What If, and a character’s What Is. I’m not sure if most writers do this, but I’m guilty of putting reflections of myself into my stories. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about “David,” and wondering what a person outside of myself would handle a conversation with an estranged father – so estranged that he doesn’t even recognize his son. Of course, this stemmed from my recent run in with Javier. I thought I’d put all the anger and hatred aside and grown up as a man. I still felt the bitter taste of betrayal and abandonment when he opened his mouth to greet me. This man isn’t my father. My mother played both roles. She was the one that – poorly – attempted to tell me what was happening to my body. She was the one that warned me what girls were like – she was completely off that one, by the way. There were things she couldn’t explain to me, and I never pushed her to. She was my support and I don’t know what I’d do without her.
But the more I think about “David,” the more my mind focuses on this new nameless (as of now) character wandering about as the only world he’d know vanished seemingly over night. Divorced. Having to “divide” his friends between his ex. Finding out that he can love again, even though he will always look over his shoulder in hopes that she is following.
I started mapping the beginning and the end, because it’s obvious that even the ending I have already planned isn’t the ending that will come to light. It never is.
I’m not even sure what I meant by it, you know? The feeling’s still there, but the emotion’s gone. If that makes any sense. Sometimes, it’s like I’m just traversing the between the living and the dead. I’m haunting this place. My life. Those I loved.
There’s this delusion I read about while living. Cotard’s, it’s called. When a person has Cotard Delusion, he believes that he is already dead. Not wanting to die. Not suicidal. Dead. Doorknob-esque. I’m not sure if anyone ever recovers from it, but who’s to say? I’m definitely not. In extreme cases, people with Cotard’s tend to kill themselves. Again, this isn’t suicide. They firmly believe that they are not living, therefore, cannot die again. In other cases, they believe they can “feel” their innards fester, smell their bodies rotting.
My favorite case was about a man who survived a motorcycle accident. He believed that he visited his mother in her dreams every night. That was the only explanation for why she still continued interacting with him. In hopes to free him from his delusion, she took him on a trip to Africa. Through his eyes, however, she joined him on a tour of Hell.
“Or one begins asking oneself that same question differently. Am I dead? Though this question at no time explicitly translates to Should I be dead, eventually the suicide hotline is called. You are, as usual watching television, the eight-o’clock movie, when a number flashes on the screen: 1-800-SUICIDE. You dial the number. Do you feel like killing yourself? the man on the other end of the receiver asks. You tell him, I feel like I am already dead. When he makes no response you add, I am in death’s position. He finally says, Don’t believe what you are thinking and feeling. Then he asks, Where do you live?” – Claudia Rankine, Don’t Let me Be Lonely
There have been times when I wondered if I’m, in fact, non-existent. Not dead. Not even invisible. I begin to have this terrible feeling that I don’t actually exist. And that this is just some dream. A brain in a vat.
The thing about depression is that the more you allow to pile on top, the less you feel anything. And the less you feel, the more you begin to think. There isn’t any fear of not existing anymore than a fear of dying.
I don’t think I can even begin to explain what’s going on here. The first one is confusing enough, and I feel the second is some sort of trap. Or maybe I should be phoning the FBI as we speak and send that information to them. I’m just hoping it’s a case of English-as-third-language.
Moving. I had a shit day at work today. Even shittier than most, and couple that with a back ache and sleeplessness, well you’ve got a recipe of shut-the-fuck-up soup. Seriously, I want everyone to shut the fuck up, sit on it, and possibly die (if you would be so kind).
I’d go into detail, but not here. I’ll save that for my bickering blog.
That’s not really working out for me. Have you ever read the book?
I took it upon myself Wednesday to help out with the pre-production of the puppet show. Big mistake, by the way. I spent four hours reading and summarizing and attempting to fix the story’s plot holes and give it a better ending. The story has gone through so many alterations that I wish that the original story idea was kept – a retelling of “The Boy Who Cried Wolf,” entitled “The Last Princess.” It went through a first revision when the title was changed, which also changed the entire plot by adding a character that was never mentioned before. It was written, submitted and changed again. The alterations this time left a sour taste in my mouth. A train wreck that didn’t know where to land. So I worked on it. Starting with the one-sentence summary of the original story, I created a three paragraph plot line that proved a slightly better story. This took me a cup of French Vanilla Mocha/Hot Chocolate blend, four ibuprofen pills, and a lot of head tilting (a writing quirk I never knew I had until my co-worker pointed it out). This story idea was shot down by proxy. The story was to be rewritten again.
What happens to my three paragraph plot line? Well, I’m keeping it and working on it as a possible children’s book.
I don’t know where the story’s heading now, but according to my co-worker, the ending still splits into two directions. I suggested my ending to see if the idea gets the thumbs up. At this moment, I don’t care. I just want to get this month over with.
Lately, my depression promoted itself to co-pilot. I can’t shake it off. The proverbial black cloud looming overhead has decided to follow me. I haven’t felt this depressed in over a year. Now it’s burrowing through me. It’s set in deep, this time. A jack rabbit finding a home in my emptiness. The more it spreads, the more I accept that this time I’ll need an arsenal to fight it off. It will not be ignored.
Have I mentioned how much I hated Fifty Shades of Grey? How I find that it bastardized the erotica genre with its poorly written passages and introducing the worse narrator I’ve ever met? It made Twelve read like Hemingway. Yet somehow the mass majority of people were tricked into thinking they were reading something authentic. Even worse, it spawned a plethora of copy cats and parodies, all of which I avoided like the plague (cliche much? Yeah, well, I’m not gonna give you anything but cliches when I’m talking about a book that is a cliche). That was until I found Fifty Shades of Red Riding Hood.
While the story is poorly written, it’s supposed to be like that. So rather than correcting the sentences and passages I’m choosing to quote here, I’m probably not even going to make any comment on them. Just enjoy the show, kay?
Jeez – I really needed some discipline in my life… […] He was strong, bipedal and covered in thick fir [sic], which was made up of many different shades of grey.
My heart almost suffocated me because it leapt up and got struck in a nostril, but fortunately, I had two nostrils so managed to maintain a clear airway and didn’t die.
One important thing to remember when you purposely write badly is to always come up with the worse images imaginable. Metaphors and similes are equally important as you’ll see later on.
‘Wait!’ said the deep, gruff voice, which was like nutty chocolate fudge or something.
See what I mean? Later, R.R. Hood recalls this poorly choice of words by stating, “I couldn’t say ‘no’ to that voice – that nutty-chocolate-fudge-or-something voice.
This is later followed by, “It was like sitting on top of a ferocious washing machine or something,” and “I knew that I wasn’t in mortal danger yet my stomach spun, like being on a rapidly rising roller coaster or something.” The short story is filled with zingers like this, by the way.
“I felt my juices flowing once again, adding to those earlier juices to form a lady juice cocktail.”
“I blushed as he slowly exposed more of my soft, pink bootie, which was a silky like a peach encase in rose petals.”
At first, I thought I had wet myself, but then I remembered about natural female lubricants and realised that I must be what they call ‘horny’. Oh my! What excitement!
The author jabs at the virginal fact, which is the undertone of the first Fifty Shades book (at least in the first five or six chapters, which is how far I got before I deleted it from my Kindle and damned people for helping this rubbish make it to the best seller list).
Other quotes that fall under this are:
“I was just a wide-eyed virgin mathematician! Jeez!”
“No man had ever looked at me naked before and now a man was to look at that little private bead that I myself had never seen.”
“I slipped out of my white shirt, revealing my soft, pert, pink, virginal breasts.”
“…my tight virginal hoo-ha.”
“I had never seen a penis of such impressive proportions, or indeed, any penis at all, (so you had to wonder where I got my baseline from.)”
“‘I want you to lick my delicate jewels and then put your impressive length inside my tight, virginal vagina,’ I breathed.”
‘It’s just I…’ he stuttered, ‘I… have rather specific… er… tastes.’
One of the many things I hated about Fifty Shades of Grey is the bad dialogue. Who talks like that? Of course, no parody can go without poking fun at this major flaw.
“‘I was expecting some… some… well, I don’t really have the experiences to express what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.'”
“‘Because I’m fifty shades of lonely, Red Riding Hood!'”
“‘Noooooooooooooooo!’ I cried, running as fast as my long, slender and naked legs could carry me, across the impeccable clearing. ‘No! Nooooo! Noooooooooooooooooooooo!'”
“Maybe he was about to pleasure me with his impressive length… ‘Are you going to pleasure me with your impressive length?’ I asked.”
“He appeared to be writing something. What could he possibly be writing at a time like this? ‘What could you possibly be writing at a time like this?’ I asked.”
My inner goddess did the cancan, hopscotch and an interpretive dance.
The inner goddess shit was a constant thorn in the reader’s side. Why not over use it in a parody?
“My inner goddess downed a tequila.”
“My inner goddess fired a gun into her temple.”
“My inner goddess lit a sparkler or something.”
What sort of perverse beast uses sex to lure a woman into a game of table tennis?
The old bait and switch. That’s what Fifty Shades of Grey really is. You’re promised one thing and receive shit. So why not make the entire parody an elaborate bait and switch for the main character?
I don’t read many parodies – though, a lot of what I read could pass as such – but this one takes the cake.