May recap/ delusions of grandeur

On the last episode of my life I decided to stop using proximity-based sexcentric phone applications as a catalyst for a meaningful relationship, I asked my therapist to step up and start pushing me in a useful direction and I've pretended that every person who ever hurt me in my life doesn't exist. At least some of that is productive and healthy.

I've also managed to quit smoking by telling myself that every cigarette I smoke is another man that won't want to marry me and I figure I've narrowed down my pool enough for one lifetime. I'm also applying the same competitive drive and furious rage that fuels my creative endeavors to my work out regimen. I do aquatic interval training every day in the indoor pool in my building and I try to ignore the listless sagging ladies in shower caps paddling beside me. Instead I motivate myself by saying that every consecutive lap is another lightning bolt from the hand of God that will strike down the men who have done me wrong, and judging by my workout yesterday my exes should be crispier than Bob Barker.

I may not be able to squelch my rage and negative thinking but I must find ways to channel it into things that make me better and stronger until I am overflowing with Hulk-like power or at least an advance check from a major publisher. Now that I am in good physical--and passable mental--health, and I am bringing home the mother fucking bacon it is time to bring home another MFB, a mother fucking book.

I told my therapist that after all of the years of tragedy raining down upon me, catastrophic relationships, and emotional wreckage that the silver lining of it all is that I will have the material to write a book and that book will make me rich and powerful enough to buy and sell the people who have hurt me ten times over then buy them again and sell them into white slavery. And I will have enough left over to to buy the Prada sneaker soled espresso colored wingtips that I will use to walk all over them.

My therapist reminded me that delusions of grandeur is one of the key symptoms of both schizoid and narcissistic disorders.

Yes, my zealous disproportionate resentment of people from my past may simply be an outlet for internal frustrations that have nothing to do with them but if it will do for my literary career what it is doing for my quadriceps then I'm going to let the rage pour. It's got to come out somewhere and I've already embarrassingly demonstrated that it can't erupt at work so now it's time to spit creative lava like a Balrog of poetic justice. It is the one kind of justice that has never failed both in life experience and major works of literature.

Sure, poetic justice isn't always easy to see in our everyday grind, it's like misguided religions trying to decipher miracles out of the everyday madness of our existence. But if you look hard enough you can find it. And in my life I have found mine. I may not have any of the qualities of the A-list gays: perceptible abdominal muscles, award winning personality, fun upbeat attitude, great career, and a circle of fun sexy friends that like to spend weekends at Hollywood beach in their speedos, but I have my brain. I have my relentless wit and intellect that may alienate me at times but also is what makes people notice me. I know what makes me different, when so many people can only point out what makes them the same.

So yes, it is perhaps a little unrealistic to hold on to some far-flung dream of publishing a book to validate my existence but in the absence of published work the dream of publishing is the only thing that really even qualifies me as a writer anymore-- that and this bargain bin blog that all of ten people read. So next up on my list of things to do in my life: finish writing my goddamn book.