The John Goodman Project: Barton Fink

I know it's been a hot minute guys, but let's take a break from the sadness going on and dive into one of my absolute FAVORITE John Goodman films of all time, Barton Fink.
This movie is every writer's nightmare. Excluding just the fact that the John Goodman element is EVERYONES' nightmare. Barton Fink is hailed as a genius stage writer in New York that is offered a job to write for the "moving pictures" in the golden land of Hollywood. He is hesitant because he thinks that it will tarnish his ability to be a "writer for the common man" but he goes because money, right? Everyone loves money. When he gets there he insists that he stay in a dirty hole of a place because he is ONE WITH THE COMMON MAN. He wants to live in squalor and filth. He looks at the money, and sure he takes it but he doesn't want to compromise his art. Did I mention the guy who works at the hotel is Chet! played by Steve Buscemi? Because it is and it's delightful. So he is given a project, a wrestling movie, and he goes on to try and write it which he just is having so much trouble with. He's got that writer's block. Also, he keeps looking at this damn beach painting.
Enter John Goodman. He is crying in the room next door. Weird, right? Why is he crying? Barton Fink complains to Chet! and then in comes our lovable goof. He is nice. He is SO nice that it feels... weird. Something feels just... off about him. Barton Fink doesn't seem to notice. He just keeps going on and on about his problems. Always talking over his new companion.
While stuck in his writers block Barton meets another writer who never stops drinking or beating his wife or yelling. This guy completely bashes in the image that Barton had of his beloved hero who for some reason is this jackass. He stole his wife's work and is just a total asshole. Oh, and he doesn't solve Barton's writer's block. Instead of doing any writing he sleeps with the guys wife and then wakes up next to her murdered corpse. DON'T WORRY, John Goodman is super nice and gets rid of that corpse for him, NO PROBLEM.
BIG PROBLEM, JOHN GOODMAN IS A SERIAL KILLER DEVIL.
Anyway, you should be watching the movie by now because this is all way better than me typing it out. This creepy, smiling motherfucker ALWAYS GETS ME. He leaves Barton with a box before he bounces after murdering the lady IN BARTON'S BED. What is in the box? WHAT IS IN THE BOX????
Also John Goodman murders his whole family and lays some SERIOUS truth on him about what it is to be a REAL common man and how Barton Fink is full of shit.
THEN THAT BAD ASS WALKS INTO FIRE AND WHERE DID HE GO.
After John Goodman leaves the film Barton Fink pretty much loses his dream and takes that creepy box to the beach and finds that weird beach picture in real life that he was obsessed with.

Thanks Coen brothers for always fucking blowing my mind.

Faking It: Mixtape


I've been struggling with some pretty severe depressive episodes lately. I really just wanna give up on everything. From what I talked about last entry, all those bad things feel like they are just getting too heavy to carry. Most days I just want to lay in my bed and cry. Unfortunately (or I suppose, fortunately?) I can't do that because I have to function like a person or my whole life would fall apart.

Something that comes with my depressive episodes is an extreme disassociation from myself. I feel like my life and myself isn't real. It's as if I am a stranger is my own mind. This is a hallucination that comes with my bipolar disorder. It's incredibly frustrating to go through because I have no control over it and never know when I will feel like myself again. It just comes and goes as it pleases, making me even more depressed because I feel like I have no control over my own mind.
I never let anyone outside know this is going on though, except maybe my fiance and my best friend. So today I have for you all my depressive episode mixtape for when I'm "Faking It"
I wish I had more to say.
I'm going through some rough stuff right now.

The Wheel

I feel very guilty. I have been neglecting a lot of things lately that I want to be doing like writing here on this blog, keeping up with my weekly organization of myself, getting back in reading/writing/practicing music/cooking better food/exercising... there's a lot. I have just been paralyzed by stress and depression. I have to literally drag myself through the day and convince myself to do the simplest things like shower or get up in the morning. It seems like everywhere I turn there is only bad things around the corner. I know deep down that I am allowing myself to be overwhelmed with the bad things and there are still good things in my life that I am ignoring but when depression hits it is easy to just say "Fuck this, life is bad right now."
Every day I just sit in chronic pain at my desk, my head swimming with all the stresses of the day and just beg the universe "Please, just give me something good."
Back in middle school I was really obsessed with Mythology. I thought the concepts and stories were so interesting. There was this one idea that our lives are like a wheel. When we are at the top all these good things are happening to us but then it will spin and we will be at the bottom where everything bad happens. But don't worry, the wheel will continue to turn and you will be at the top again.
I try not to get these ideas so solidly in my head because I believe that when we subscribe to something it's like a self fulfilling prophecy. Of course if you believe that once something negative happens you are in for all the negative things then you are just surrounding yourself with negative energy and that just brings the negative things upon you. At least that's what I believe. I understand if you thinks that's utter bullshit and what is going to happen is what happens.
But I am a massively paranoid person.
I feel like I am at the bottom of my wheel right now. I just need to get back to the top.

The Cool Girl

My whole life there has been two of me. There has been the person that truly exists and lives. The one that is real. Then there is "the cool girl". She lives in my mind. She is everything that I wish I was but I have never been. She is skinnier than me, more creative than me, more talented, more organized, more motivated... more EVERYTHING.

Since I have developed insecurities she has existed to break through them. I could always close my eyes and just see her, always so close to reality. Just 15 pounds away, just pushing myself a little further towards a goal. Always so close to my cool self. My perfect self. I wanted to be her so bad. I still do.
It's an obsession that I feel I constantly stand in the way of. I have confessed this to my fiance during our late night talks when we are lying in bed in the dark. He says I'm already cool. That all my goals are attainable. I still want to be her.
She doesn't take pictures with back fat.
She doesn't have weird adult acne.
She has cool clothes and hair that looks way better than mine.
She has the willpower in the morning to do her hair and put on makeup.
High heels don't hurt HER feet.
She practices her cello everyday.
She pushes herself to use her yoga mat.
She eats healthy delicious food.
She doesn't cry all the time.
She has way more fun.

God damn her.

Why.
Can't
I.
Be.
Her.

Pickles

The best decision I have ever made (besides my fiance) was the day I decided to get my dog, Pickles. The second I locked eyes with her, I just knew that she was my dog and I somehow knew her name was Pickles. I didn't think about anything when I got her. I had my friend sit with her while I ran to the bank to cash my tax refund check so that no one else could take her. From that second, Pickles and I would never be apart.
When she first came home she fit in both my hands. She would squish herself in between pillows to fall asleep. I had never in my life before that ever been more in love with a living thing.
Pickles has shown me love when I had none. She has gotten me through the toughest times in my life. She has always been by my side. I can't imagine how I would have navigated the last six years without her. The love from a dog is one that cannot be replaced or described. She has a brilliant personality, she makes me laugh, she comforts me when I cry, and she is way too fucking smart for her own good. I will never be able to repay the countless heartbroken nights where I shed too many tears or the nights I felt so alone that she was there for me.













One day I hope to have many more pups to share my love with but Pickles will always have my heart.

Suicide Anniversary

Today, March 20th, is the eight year anniversary of when I took a hundred and fifty pills after walking home from high school and then after hours in the ER, throwing up and feeling numb, got committed to the mental hospital for a 51/50.
The memories that surround this incident are buried in my mind, only to sometimes reappear with a vengeance. I remember that day being filled with feelings of intense desperation and worthlessness. I remember crying the entire walk home from school, calling all the normal comforts in my phone to only be met with silence. I remember getting home to hit myself with a baseball bat like I would normally do in extreme emotional pain to just not feel satisfied this time. I remember calmly sitting on the computer in the family kitchen, slowly popping pill after pill down my throat while on Myspace. I remember all those people I had called finally calling me back once the bottle was empty, demanding I call an ambulance or they would. I remember sitting quietly by the front door while EMTs shoved oxygen tubes in my nose and put me on a stretcher to wheel me out in front of all the neighbors that I couldn't care less about. I remember my best friend's mom. My mom. My best friend. Crying. I wasn't crying.
The EMTs scoffed, "Why would you kill yourself over a boy?"
It was never the BOY.
It was the abuse, year after year after year by so many different faces that just blended together into nothing. The constant feeling of being worth nothing, being treated like an object. It was everything, I wanted to feel nothing. I was rotting inside so let me rot all the way through.
We sat in the ICU with tubes all over me. I threw up a lot but the nurse says I'm so lucky because the pills I took aren't poisonous. I did't feel lucky.
My family cried and I laughed.
I could't stop laughing.
I am not dead.
I am going to keep living.
This is funny right now.
No one knows I am bipolar yet. No one understands me.
They finally found a ward after midnight.
My mom cried as she signs the paperwork.
I don't want to talk about the ward. Maybe one day. Not today.

I've O.D.ed in private since. I've threatened. I've thought. But I've lived.
I haven't tried in over 3 years.
I am grateful I am alive even when things are so bad I want to tear my skin off.
Leaving doesn't solve the problems. Closing the door, exiting the room just means that you will never experience anything again. Nothing. Not the embrace of your mother. Not your favorite song. Not the smell of Jasmine blooming in the summer outside your window. Every bad day has some beauty in it. I promise. So just stick around and find your things that make your life beautiful.
My beautiful things

Manic Expression: Mixtape

If there is one thing I am like, REALLY super good at, it's having a massive garbage melt down with zero warning that usually results in hysterical screaming. And crying. And being really, REALLY furiously angry. I'm INSANELY good at that. I didn't know until I was diagnosed that these are manic episodes; at the time I thought I was just a really excellent crazy bitch. (I am joking about this but seriously, it ruined my life for years)
When I am amped up on the mania juice there really isn't much in the way of calming me down besides just riding out the wave. I can isolate myself, take anti-anxiety meds, cry it out, punch a wall repeatedly, punch my leg repeatedly, but usually the healthiest way to go about it is scream it out to some good music. There has been quite a few days I have done this in the car ride home after a particularly rough day. Releasing all the horrible, pent up rage of the day out the window of my car and into the smog ridden, Los Angeles atmosphere. Crying it out feels pretty good too but we have already chatted about the crying.
I put together a playlist (mix-tape if it was my choice but you can't very well put one of those onto the internet) of amazing songs to raise your voice to and play as loud as you can. Ignore the cars around you because when the hell are you gonna see them again anyway? Just yell. Scream. Don't try and sound pretty. Make ugly faces at the road. Fuck everyone else for awhile and just rage.