Last night was Friday, and in a parallel universe I was eating bacon and watching movies with a friend — having howling fun and celebrating life. In this universe I was sitting alone, pretending to watch coverage of the whole Boston thing, deceiving myself into believing that everything was copacetic.
I felt — I feel — like Canio. I put on the costume and prepare to play the clown, but if this is a fucking comedy I don't get the joke. Instead of crying on the inside I'm screaming — a rant of agony that frightens me with its ferocity and durability. Someone asked me the other day if I was any better than I was a couple-three months ago. I started to answer and realized I couldn't speak without cracking, so I just shut up. The answer was obvious.
"People just don't get you," a friend said the other night on the phone, in what might be the understatement of 2013. How can they? I don't get myself anymore. Burn, pine, perish: I've always been a fuck-it sort of guy, just shake it off and land on my feet and keep moving. I am on my back now, and goddamned if I can figure out how to get off the canvas. I tried lucid dreaming to chase the muse out of my head, where she seems to have taken up permanent residence. She showed up anyway and told me straight: "It isn't working." I woke up at 4:01 a.m. and cursed the day.
I think I'll just kick it here for a while. The ceiling looks ... interdasting. No meat on the menu, no debauchery on the agenda: I'm one healthy sumbitch, and if I keep exercising I'll live another 50 years before the curtain falls. That seems about the right penance to pay. Meanwhile, the parallel universe Ron can take his vacation to Brazil and laugh at the play going on in this universe. Just call me Pagliaccio. And no worries; no innocents get stabbed in my version of this opera.