I wrote the following 11 days ago. I'd just unofficially finished the screenplay after a mammoth 18 hour session and had been up for 21 hours. As any insomniac may know (or maybe it applies only to me), when you pass the threshold where you can't stay awake any longer, it becomes easier to stay awake... your mind also becomes "warped".
I personally, after being awake for so long, come up with weird ideas and write fantastical things; after sufficient reflection, these ideas may end up either completely insane or brilliant... examples: a poem about dancing bed sheets and people watching me with binoculars at three in the morning , or a simple short story about falling in love with an actress in the wake of a kidnapping incident.
Another thing is my comedic pallet, after 20 hours, I'll laugh at anything. That's how my love of Frasier came to be... all those mornings spent watching Channel 4 before going to bed.
Anyhoo, anyhow, and a little anyway.
While writing it, my connection died, which explains why it wasn't published earlier. It's also why you see it incomplete.
Because editing it now would ruin the impromptu effect, I'm leaving it as it is.
A beautiful menagerie of insanity in a bowl of lunacy soup with a glass of Korsakoff's psychosis and mental unsoundness for dessert...
I don't know if that's the best word, but right now, I'm full of coffee, Red Bull, and a lot (emphasis on a lot) of Coke. But there's something else coursing through every single one of my vessels, and it's something difficult to explain.
A feeling of "fuck yeah", perhaps. A feeling of two years worth of relief, perhaps. A weird sort of happiness, perhaps. The feeling that I've just finished the biggest piece of work I've ever had the misfortune to work on, definitely.
Well, not really... I'm not really finished. All I did was finish the "first draft", as I'm told to say. A first draft I completed over a drunken weekend.
In reality, though, this insignificant, flawed draft took me two years to complete. Now, I know that sounds insane and untrue, but it is insane and true.
In these past two years I've literally "eat, drink, and sleep", or more precisely, I've ate, drank, slept, and masturbated TSH.
And I put "masturbated" because writing really is masturbation in many ways...
It's masturbation because I'm creating a story that pleases me, I'm creating characters that satisfy my liking, and I'm creating dialogue that makes me cry or laugh or whatever.
It's masturbation because because it's a solitary journey, it started with me alone in a room and it's ended with me alone in a room. With the door closed and the curtains shielding the outside world's eyes.
And it's masturbation because, like those couple minutes after I've pulled the zipper down, it's leaving me with an odd feeling. With an apology for the vulgarity, I must explain that after those minutes, with the jizz rolling down the porcelain bowl, the weirdest things happen... I don't go into some sort of psychedelic trance - if that's what you're thinking - rather, I sometimes have an epiphany. So, I'll be standing there, and I will continue to stand there while my mind strolls through the forest of beautiful ideas.
Maybe this happens to other folks, but how do I explain to whoever the origins of that insanely brilliant idea I had? I don't know... and like I said, maybe I'm thinking I'm a lot more special than I really am, but I don't think saying: "Well, hmm... I had just came, and, you know, my cum was dripping off the edge of my knuckles, and, you know, there it was. It just came to me." No pun intended.
And when the casual thought of Jena Malone goes astray, I'd like it to end with the toilet paper tossed away. Not some grand epiphany which takes me away from what I was doing before.
I don't want to deviate any further, but it's literally exactly the same as masturbation.
You start out with a vague picture in your head, eventually becoming clearer and more enjoyable, until it ends with an angel-serenading climax where you get to type "The End" and be over with it.
And really, it should rapidly descend into a period of abstinence until you start all over again a couple of days (or hours?) later. That's what I want... I want to save the file to a disk, lock the disk somewhere out of sight, and disappear for a couple days where I don't have to do any thinking let alone writing.
But I've been spending so much time fixating, obsessing over this picture that it's more than a simple bit of wank foddery. And now that I've wiped the cum off my hand, typed "The End", ideas are suddenly coming to me. The descent is nonexistent.
And even though tomorrow I should be enjoying the Broncos' blowout win against the Steelers, I just know I'll be spending that time with a notepad instead. Changing my epiphanies and ideas into words.
So... the feeling? Relief. Jubilation. Wired.
I'm "tense with excitement and enthusiasm as from a rush of adrenaline."
That adrenaline is the caffeine, maybe, but it's also the fact that I've finally finished.
And I'm "tied or bound with wire."
And not just one wire, it's all these black cords surrounding me. Writing owns me, I can't escape it. I want to ejaculate and fuck off. I want to feel guilty and swear I'll never do it again.
But no matter how hard I try, I can't control the random occurrences, the things I hear or see or smell, the source of my inspiration... that thing which makes me open my eyes and say, "That's it."
But then, maybe I'm just being a little too dramatic. Maybe all great ideas are born of the fireman's milky discharge... maybe that's how Moby Dick was born, maybe that's how Deadwood was born, maybe that's how...
For the life of me, I can't remember how I ended it, but I know it was witty. Maybe something like "I don't know... maybe..."
Well, I don't know. You figure it out, I have editing to do.