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Apr. 11th, 2012 11:37 amTwo roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I had to travel either. One said "Aplenzin" and the other said "Shanghai, China - Departure Scan." These past few months have been spent weighing out The Choice. I was on the life affirming side, but the last two weeks fall off, because of the generic AD switch, were discouraging. Today is the first day on the new non-generic AD. At the same time oblivion is coming via UPS, expected end of day Thursday. A scheduled race for my mortal soul.
One non-chemical item that might save me: I started reading "What Makes Sammy Run" by Budd Schulberg. I don't believe I've read anyone who's able to so clearly describe the sociopaths I've run into over the course of my career: how mystifying their successes seem, or how people will blindly play along with their frantic need for it; how obvious, unpleasant and alien their nature is to intelligent perceptive types, and so invisible to their toadies. If MF was an example of anything, it was that it only takes the emotional and cognitive intelligence of a 13 year old to become a millionaire in digital media. To receive some validation that I wasn't alone in hating these people - that they are "ruthless careerists, obsessed with the one idea of self-promotion, caricatures of the self-made man and a threat to Western civilization, the principal of which they have reduced to absurdity." - is of no small comfort. Perhaps even more comforting is remembering that good writers can explain your life better than you could have hoped to explain it to yourself.
So, the next few days are just time spent in the waiting room. I've gotten to the point where I am removed from my own choices. It's only a matter of which chemical is most expedient. I want some great thunderous miracle, revelation, or sign. Except I don't believe in miracles or signs. It's not that I don't lean towards belief in free will - it's that I don't believe in my own these days.
One non-chemical item that might save me: I started reading "What Makes Sammy Run" by Budd Schulberg. I don't believe I've read anyone who's able to so clearly describe the sociopaths I've run into over the course of my career: how mystifying their successes seem, or how people will blindly play along with their frantic need for it; how obvious, unpleasant and alien their nature is to intelligent perceptive types, and so invisible to their toadies. If MF was an example of anything, it was that it only takes the emotional and cognitive intelligence of a 13 year old to become a millionaire in digital media. To receive some validation that I wasn't alone in hating these people - that they are "ruthless careerists, obsessed with the one idea of self-promotion, caricatures of the self-made man and a threat to Western civilization, the principal of which they have reduced to absurdity." - is of no small comfort. Perhaps even more comforting is remembering that good writers can explain your life better than you could have hoped to explain it to yourself.
So, the next few days are just time spent in the waiting room. I've gotten to the point where I am removed from my own choices. It's only a matter of which chemical is most expedient. I want some great thunderous miracle, revelation, or sign. Except I don't believe in miracles or signs. It's not that I don't lean towards belief in free will - it's that I don't believe in my own these days.
