So this is a cool thing. Apparently the Actors Anonymous Theater Company chose one of my plays for their one-act play fesitival in May.

The play is called "Untitled," and of course is drenched in allegory and symbolism. I'm sort of surprised they chose that one, but hey, whatever works.

So I guess this begs the question, in art, are you an artist if you show your work, or rather, do you need to show your work to be an artist? I'd consider myself a playwright, but until I get one produced, I find it difficult to say that.

Well maybe it's a case of whether or not you're a successful artist and or playwright. BUt then what is successful?

Ah fuck it.

I'll give y'all details when I know them, but you should check it out.

OKay, This is akin to an epiphany. Who knew about the flash chat shite on this thing? And I have a microphone! Life just became so much easier, thank you Paul.

It does keep on booting me off, so who knows, but ey, regardless. Laters sir, and thanks again.

I'm going to wake up my dog who is having terrible dreams right now. Hopefully it is of disgusting little dogs rather than thought of killing me.

I mean what the fuck.

So I have all this shit to do and I have to go and pass out again. I'd feel better if I really passed out, but no. Damnit.

It's just that I'm legitimately tired, and that's just god awful. Sure, I'm up now, but I feel like passing out again. I won't be on the ball which again, fuck me.

What's one day right. Bastard. I'm just aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

um.

I'm going to sleep. Before I break my computer.

Damnit.

It's true. We're talking inches here. It's a long story but basically a long steel rod came whipping at my neck. If it would have hit my skull, I might be dead now.

Why am I okay with the fact that it didn't hit my skull? I mean, some people would completely look at their lives differently.

Me?

I just knew it wouldn't have hit my skull for some reason. I really just know that.

Very strange but it all makes so much sense sometimes.

I was about two drinks away from absurdity when I decided to leave the bar. Walking home, I pass by two sketchy characters that I know I’ve seen before but cannot place their faces. I’m walking at a pace twice their speed and only look back to see who they really are. When I recognize them, I keep pace and head for home to take a leak.
    “Nothing is left up to fate,” says the smaller one to the other. “Everything happens for a reason.”
    My pace slows to a walk for once and I try to overhear more. I can’t. I am already out of range. I look and see that my apartment is five houses away. I have to take a leak. But it’s garbage day tomorrow so before I relieve myself I must relieve the loaded can. As I push the can towards the street, the characters walk by again, still talking about nothing they’ll ever figure out.
    Should I.
    I should.
    “It doesn’t make sense,” I say to the smaller of the two. “You cannot have things happen for a reason with no fate. It doesn’t work like that.”
    “Excuse me?” says the shorter of the two.
    “I over heard you, but you’re wrong,” I say.
    “No, no, no.” And to his friend he says, “See this is what I’m talking about.” He then looks at me. “You misunderstood. Everything happens for a reason. Let’s say for example,” and he holds out his right hand like a gun, and points it at me and pokes it into my chest. “I was to shoot you in the heart.” There’s a brief silence and I feel each breath of mine leave my body.
“BLAM!” he shouts. “Okay?”
    “Okay,” I say. Barely.
    “And you fall on the ground dead,” and he takes his hand away.
    “Okay,” I say.
    “Well see . . . there’s a reason you’re on the ground.”
    “Well sure,” I say. “In the Newtonian sense of the word sure, cause and effect, sure.”
    “You’re on the ground,” he says. “Dead. Because of me. I did that to you.”
    “But no, I mean yes, okay,” I say.
    His friend looks at me with glasses on his face, an eight day old beard, and clothes that clearly belonged to someone else at one point, and asks, “It’s hard to understand isn’t it?”
    “No,” I say. “No it’s not hard to understand. See the thing is that you can’t say that things happen for a reason without fate. If there is no fate, things don’t happen for a reason. If there is no reason for things well then, there would be nothing but absurdity.”
    “We only have absurdity.”
    “YES. We do,” I say. “Or it could be that we simply do not know our own fate.”
    “No,” he says. “You just don’t know yours.”