Self Note, Jerry Maguire, Too Much Information

Let’s just take one last look.

We wave good-bye. A good-bye to past, err, current circumstance.

I’ve become a clichéd 25-year-old girl.

I was musing on it this morning in my head, and that’s the end result. I’m lying on my stomach at the time, as that’s the only way I can be “comfortable” on the now-entirely deflated air mattress that is my bed. So, I’m lying on rubber on the hardwood floor. The birds won’t stop squawking at me from right outside the window that won’t close right. And, while the sun’s reared its head, it still doesn’t illuminate the room since the overhead light went out days ago; I’ve been using only the TV and my computer for light (I did bring in an intermittent lamp, but it lasted two days – it’s got to be the outlets in this place).

Sobbed like I’d lost my baby brother (I don’t have one, so there shouldn’t be any jinxing.)

Heart-broken, hate (parts of) my job, have few friends to count on, the list I drew out in my head – oh, it started to get long.

The sobbing lasted aboouuuuut 30 seconds. And, I think I was trying to pull it out of me, in a way: “God, this is how you’re living Morgan? You should be so depressed. And sad, be sad. God, affect some sadness!” I may have even tried to shake my shoulders somewhat, but that was impeded by them knocking round on the floor.

Then I snapped myself out of it. Think, think. [Blink, blink.]

And then, I did my characteristic giggling. Rolled over (ouch, watch the right side, the femur’s still sore) and stared at the bouncing DVD cube on the television set.

It’s as if I’ve tried to fast forward through so many emotional things they say “writers” must experience to, well, write well. You can’t write experience if you don’t have it.

I could’ve hobbled over, taken a chair and fixed the overhead light. Or, called our Super, Frank, and had him do it. He’d have taken care of the window, too, I’m sure. I could’ve gimped over to the closet and gotten out the mattress inflator and inflated up the bed. I could’ve bought a real bed. Nope, just didn’t do it. I could’ve gotten over boy by being a floozy. Well.

Maybe I put myself through these self-inflicted inconveniences so I could know how it feels, and how it feels to get myself out of them. I dwell, but I don’t have much tolerance for cliché.

I giggled after the brief bout of sadness because I got an idea for a funny story. One that hopefully I’ll start on today. And, I know that I’m moving, sadly not to L.A. just yet, but to a better-suited apartment.

No more time to be sad. And I made a new resolution, which I’ll keep to myself for now.

Self meeting, adjourned.

"A breakdown? A break through. I couldn't escape one, single thought." Thank you, Jerry Maguire. We shall see.

Walk Home From `Zack and Miri,' Flashes of Doom, More Luke: Summer of Sam

I was bopping along the street earlier this evening (well, now, yesterday), walking back from the screening of “Zack and Miri” (hmm.). Mama Grice hadn’t picked up the phone yet – I’d gotten off at a wrong subway stop and had to walk home, so I called for some company. No answer: how infuriating a feeling, it’s so unfair, given my horrible call-screening tendencies, but … play it as it lays.

So, I’m bopping along, one of the best friends (who answered) tells me she’s at a Hanson concert in Times Sq. (weep, weep for humanity), when I turn down my street.

As I’ve mentioned before, I live in a good little neighborhood. Lots of fashionable young gay men making me feel disdain for myself and my unwashed hair, and even more-obscenely unwashed clothes.

I was probably dreaming of Lucas and how I was going to kill him.

Suddenly, this man on a bike comes soaring past.

“Oh, hey, Mr. Bicyclist, maybe I’ll look and greet your eye,” I think.

He greets it and gives me a snarly, terrible smile. One that says, “Oh, hello, my sweet, I’d like to skin you and wear you as a body suit.” I have been brutally putting on pounds, of late.

It was jarring. I swept my brain away from Story Luke and started getting nervous. Me, a seemingly strong girl of Brute sensibility, I started to panic. Ooohh, I’m walking through subsidized housing. It sure is dark out here. Quite dark.

I start to eye every waking, walking person within vicinity of eye’s reach.

Paranoia. Looking behind one’s back. The whole nine.

I call my mom repeatedly, getting more frustrated (she’d been making dinner for Little Morgan, god, what’s wrong with me?)

But, oh, what a sense of horror and flashes of doom.

Sure, I should be aware that walking home alone is not ideal (ahem, Grice, it was about 8:30pm), but acting out the terrors of movies you lull yourself to sleep with? Not ideal. Oy, vey.

Reminded me of Summer of Sam with John Leguizamo. I’ve only seen parts of it (man, the more I think about it, the more I realize I should be checked for narcolepsy. I saw that many moons ago, and by “saw” means I was in my teens and never saw the end—because it was dark, I was comfortable, and zonked out. Sigh. Netflix!).

More on Bossman, Unknown Spirit, and Fight Club: Who Am I?

Zomg.

"So, Morgan Grice, how are you feeling?" asks bossman.

[Blink, blink]

"Terribly." The floodgates opened, and I was swept away by some rapturously unknown spirit. I said everything! I threw around words like "unappreciated," and "frustrated," and "discouraged"! Who am I??

I am a quiet seether. I fume, while keeping a smile on my face. What the eff was I doing??

Oh, I let it out.

"First of all, I feeeeeel like, sometimes, not always, of course, you know, that, ummm ... well, I sometimes stay really late or come in on the weekends to work on these projects, after having learned all the editing software on my own [free time] ... and, well ... I just, you know, don't feel ... encouraged to keep doing it?"

Oy. It was much stronger in my head.

"And, you know, I know you know that I've also been doing movie reviews ... and, well ... I do them on my own time ... I have to run [err, hobble] to screenings after work, and ... you know, oftentimes I have to write the review that night ... so, I just ... I don't mind doing it! [disclaim, disclaim, disclaim] but ... I ... well, if I want to keep doing it, it's not that I want to ask for more ... you know ... [chicken!] Well, anyway... I just feel like ... I do a lot, and I want to keep doing it! [disclaim] But ... well, I don't know."

Now. I know that seems like the most yellow-bellied attempt at standing up for oneself. But, he was speechless! He grunted, rubbed his chin, thought about it, looked at me with sympathetic eyes (!!) and ... said nothing.

"Well, you just think about it," I said softly, "and you let me know what we should do."

Then, I turned back to my computer and sighed.

As pathetic a show as it was, I felt like I was in "Fight Club."

Also, hattip Little Amanda for reminding me that today is Boss's Day: http://www.bigdates.com/ecard/category.asp?CGID=6

On Being Wrongly-Convicted, Shawshank, Santa Barbara

"So, what would your last meal be?" I ask, creepily. "Let's say you're on death row, and you've to send in your final food request. What would it be?" I clarify, more creepily.

"Oh, I don't know -- my tastes have changed so much over the years. You know? Like when I was a kid, it would've been ..." he responds, thoughtfully, as we shovel Santa Barbaran Mexican food into our fat faces. "Yours?"

"Pancakes, with scrambled eggs. And I'd want to eat as much as I could before I felt it all sink in to feel full and terrible. Then they could flip the switch," I respond, seamlessly. Yikes.

[Blink, blink]

"Hmm. Well, the real question is, Why did you end up on death row, Grice??"

The mind went aflutter.

Brother Grice has been shot dead. I find the villain and retaliate, vigilante-style. No. Little Morgan's been 'napped; I've found where they're holding her hostage and I snipe the perps, SWAT-style. No, no. Mama Grice has fallen comatose. The man whose fault it is is about to pull the plug in a stealth hospital-worker move. I knife him, saving her, of course; I'm found at fault for taking matters into my own hands.

No, no, no. None of these work -- I'd plea insanity (after having secured an un-securable top attorney) and probably would be left to rot in the jailhouse for all eternity. But no death row. Sigh.

I'd have to be wrongly convicted, I fear. Like Mr. Robbins in Shawshank.

One of my favorite Morgan Freeman scenes:

"