The Girl Next Door

I am an addict and I accept this.

I'm almost done my second cup of coffee for the day, so physically the caffeine is kicking in and I feel whole and complete on that regard.

Mentally I'm still bits of broken glass.

This month has been out of control with work. It feels like I've gotten around eight hours of sleep this month. Emotions have been riding some serious highs and lows. And not to sound all biblical, but this too, shall pass.

Regardless, I've been getting even less sleep than normal. I've been writing in broken snips but not enough to really vent anything. Not enough to exorcize any demons that have been building up.

Little things impact me harder when this happens... expanded through some mental magnifying glass way beyond their normal scope of things.

It's Christmas Eve and I'm working today. At least for a while. There's shit that needs done and it won't happen by itself.

But last night I took a break. But in my mental state it probably wasn't such a wise choice to watch Jack Ketchum's The Girl Next Door.

I am bits of broken glass.

When I first read the book, I was late to the game. I'd heard about it, but no one would really tell me anything about it. The only thing that was revealed to me was that it was based on a true story, though no one would tell me what the true story was about.

I never knew what hit me. That book took the core of me and slapped it around, recycling it into something else. Any innocence I had left in me at the time had a chunk more carved off, never to return.

You've heard the saying, When you dance with the devil, the devil don't change. The devil changes you. Once you see certain things, you can't un-see them.

Ketchum's book and the movie are like that. It's a great cast. Very well directed. And the girl. My god, the girl.

Go read the book. Go watch the movie.

But don't say I didn't warn you first.



Current reads:
Tucker Max: I hope they serve Beer in Hell.
Tucker is an arrogant, womanizing, alcoholic, and quite possibly one of the funniest writers I've ever read. That he's simply recounting his own personal exploits doesn't diminish the humor. I don't recall the last time I was crying and fumbling badly at actually speaking words when I attempted to read a story out loud.

Joe Hill: 20th Century Ghosts
Holy shit. This collection is... y'know what? Fuck it. Quit reading my blog and go get it. Let's just say that with Joe, the apple hasn't fallen far from the tree. Pop Art and The Black Phone are my own personal standouts.

Hunter S. Thompson: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
It's been a while since I've read this, and I needed some sort of drug-inspired, literary bukkake to take me as far away from work mind as possible. Gonzo never fails.


Music:
A mutt-mix of everything. Rap, classical, acoustic... even some oddball Romanian gypsy music. Only thing that I don't think I've listened to lately is twang-country and polka, but hey, the month's not over yet.

Current Infatuation:
Too goddamn busy to have infatuations right now.


Hope you all have a happy holiday...