futurebird's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Lather. Rinse. Repeat. I just smoked two packs of cigarettes without stopping. I don�t smoke. That�s why it�s wired. I kept smoking, lighting each new one with the hot tip of the last. I thought it would calm me down. I know, I know, It�s a stimulant. Can cause sleeplessness and death. But sometimes calm is being wide awake. I�m so tempted to give up. Call home. Ask for help. �Mom I just need to be pushed a little less-- making it in this business is really hard. I don�t know. Maybe it�s not for me. I�m going to make other plans . . .� Other plans? What. Graphic design--- consulting-- work at . . . kinkos-- I have to do something like that anyway. Even if I go on tying to direct plays. Be an artist. Right. There are too many artists. �Listen to me! Listen to me!� There aren't enough ears on all our heads together for that. I�m no good at anything else. I don�t care about anything else. I Write. Listen. Think. Read. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. And then something hits me. Sinks in and I have to find these wonderful crazy people (I think they�re called �actors�) and get them to help make some god-awfull thing. Is this some kind of disease? I wish I could take a pill that would make me just like money and blockbuster movies like my brother. That would be much easier. I love it. I love it. I love it. I love it! I like being sick. How sick is that? 09:11:51 - 2001-01-12 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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