Whiny Drivel

The parts of my life are banging together again. Imagine trying to keep a feather, an origami crane, a crystal vase, two rusty tack hammers, and a steaming plate of fettuccine Alfredo all in the same sack while you hop over barbed wire fences at a dead run. When you look in, the parts are all there, but you don't want to touch any of it.

There is a very strong sense of futility in everything I'm doing right now, and yet, I can't seem to stop and find things that are more meaningful for myself. My role - that of angry guy/chief pastor to a pack of atheists and agnostics/all-around asshole - has gotten old. If I'm tired of my antics I'm sure others must be too, but once you're type-cast it's tough to get other gigs. At this point, I am in a rut bigger than Leonard Nimoy's acting career.

The temptation to say, "It's ok - I'll be applying to grad school soon, and hopefully leaving all this crap behind," is very real, but the problem there is that I will take all of this with me. Same show, different stage.

So what is the solution? If I knew, this would be a Sunday Sermon, with a snappy title and better organizational structure - not a half-assed, half-edited pity party on a Tuesday afternoon. No, there is no handy solution to this emo-funk I find myself in. I wouldn't even really take note of it except that it is off schedule; I usually don't get this pissy until later in the academic year. My patented "Black February" is fairly famous in these parts, so I'm surprised to find that I feel all emptied out in October. Early October, even.

In an ironic bit of perfect timing, a friend just IMed me a Goth Names link. Turns out mine is "Demented Whore."