Don’t Call It A Comeback

The past few weeks I’ve been dealing with a lot.  Lot of bullshit.  I’ve gone into turtle mode, really, and because of it my writing has suffered.  Anyway, I’m going to try to make the effort to write some more here, maybe pump a bit more life into this dead husk of a blag.  I’ve got some thoughts percolating on modern medicine, the political ramifications of the Sino-American partnership, the Olympics, Grand Theft Auto IV, and life itself.

Here’s a preview:

Doctors increasingly don’t know what they’re doing, and yet they increasingly think they know what they’re doing.  I’m not anti-science by any stretch, but the mind and its processes are the one thing that modern medicine is nowhere close to mastery over.  The increasing cultural drive to paint sadness as a medical condition that must be cured is doing more harm than good, especially on Prozac Kids like me.  In a month, it will be the first time since I was eight years old that my brain has not been addled by psychiatric drugs.

China and the United States have found a brilliant way to wage a weaponless cold war.  China, by and large seen as a nascent superpower, will host the Olympics, an irrelevant exercise by all definitions, but by doing so they are drawing massive protest from all corners of the globe, except of course Washington D.C.  America has sold itself to China in exchange for cheap consumer goods, and China has sold itself to America in exchange for a means of rapid industrialization and economic growth.  If one leaves the partnership, both fall apart.  The economic form of Mutually Assured Destruction, and the most brilliant political accident in history.

Grand Theft Auto IV is amazing, and I have been no fan of the series nor its creators.  More on that once I actually beat it.

And life?  Well, this seems to be the time of revitalization in all forms of life.  Mating season for the mammals, trees and flowers bloom, kids flock into the parks and streets to play.  But how does that vitality reach one so inneured in The Matrix, as it were?  The answer is chemical, and the response is a full-frontal assault against my drive to mate.  More at 11.

Til’ next time, this is Andrew Zimmer, not dead yet.

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Those last two posts were too serious Pt. 2: Electric Boogaloo

You know what the best word in the English Language is?

Pooper.

Goodnight, everybody!

The Hurricane in my Head

And on the seventh day, Andrew did look down upon his computers, and said that they were “good enough.”

Today is my day of rest.  I find myself not resting, though, so much as brooding.  Brooding is a common activity of late.  The fates long ago decreed that everything shitty that ever happens to me must happen to me between the months of October and March, with the rest of the year serving as reprieve from the torrential downpour of extreme humanity that characterizes this time.

Think about it, the happiest day for most people in this time period involves one of three things, and in some cases all of them combined.  One, eating massive amounts of unhealthy food.  Two, drinking massive amounts of wines and various hard liquors.  Three, commemoration of the birth of a man who was ultimately beaten, whipped, stabbed, and crucified because he thought everyone should live in peace and harmony with each other.

Fun times.

For me, the misery started at the tender age of seven, my parents having decided to announce to me their intentions of divorce on New Year’s Day, as I woke up.  Now, myself having been dumped unceremoniously for a woman before I feel a certain degree of retroactive sympathy for my father.  Still, had I been custodian of a podling at the time of my interpersonal detonation, I’d have waited to deliver the news.

I’ve had family members die, been hospitalized, and even arrested (twice!) during this time period.  Nothing too bad has happened this time out.

So now I’m some form of quantum cliche, with infinite layers of suck folding over each other into nothingness.  The hermit, the manchild, the tortured artist, the hopeless romantic, these are my faces, all of them trite and none of them true.

I sit at the keyboard, the hurricane in my head reels with ideas and emotions, a category five of intellect.  Powerful, but raw, uncontrollable, and destructive.  To take the metaphor to its extreme, Katrina’s about to break the levee holding back Lake Sanity.

“I gotta get out of this place.”

“I gotta go do something”

“I gotta find a woman”

Right now, I just gotta survive.