You Might Not Want To Read My Blog

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I’ve decided to stay in Salt Lake for another week. Important shit is happening here for me. Clearly the trip has brought up a lot of feelings. That’s what happens when one prays in earnest for change, I guess. I almost decided to terminate the blog because of the shit storm it stirred up when I announced that on my sobriety anniversary next year (September 1, 2015), I’d decide if life was worth living and whether or not I wanted to go out dramatically and ceremoniously on my belly-button birthday of next year (October 15, 2015). I should make amends for that. I know the thought of suicide is traumatizing for many of you so that wasn’t fair. When that fucker walked into the Burning Man fire a month ago in Utah, it was very upsetting to me and I didn’t even know his dumb ass. I hate him, the lucky bastard. So I’ll keep moving forward not killing myself or getting loaded one day at a time, at least until this time next year and we’ll see how things look then. Also, the guillotine, for now, is out. Although I still find it a sexy way to go, I realized I don’t know where one might find a guillotine and I’m sure if I did, it would be more expensive than I could afford. I have some friends who could probably help me build one but most of them build things for the stage so the one they would build would be made to only look like it had chopped off my head so then I’d be out the money and still in possession of my head and then, boy wouldn’t I be pissed!? One thing is for damn sure. If I did go that route, Myra Bullington would be designing what I’d wear. She is, hands-down, one of the best costume designers out there and, if I don’t kill myself next October and I do end up getting my plays produced on and off Broadway, she’s going to be the one dressing my characters. Don’t try to argue with me on this one. You won’t win.
Not that you all will listen when I say something like that. I distinctly remember telling you that I didn’t want to discuss the blog with anyone and I have now wasted two full days responding to people who wanted to talk to me about the blog. That’s what happens when you’re a sweet, sensitive, caring soul like me– someone who is generally nice to everyone he meets– when someone like me sets a boundary, people just love to walk all over it. Everyone considers themselves an exception. Someone even texted Adam in New York to tell him about it. Ha! Let me tell you something, If Adam Nelson gave a shit about me, he wouldn’t have done what he did. And I would elaborate more here and now but that disaster deserves its own blog if not several. Trust me, they are forthcoming. I guess I shouldn’t have expected anyone to respect my boundaries around the blog. My boundaries have (apparently) always looked like welcome mats for my entire life. I appreciate those of you who felt compelled to make sure I didn’t up the number of veterans suicides today. You’ve done your due diligence. Thank you. Now fuck off.
This blog, for the next year, is for people who are interested in watching someone save his own life. It is not going to be pretty. I’m going to say embarrassing things. I’m going to tell you private things. I’m going to swear a lot and I am going to dime out my abusers. I’m going to talk about sex. I’m going to talk about gay sex. I’m going to talk about dirty, twisted, anonymous, deviant, self-debasing sex. If you chose to read, it’s on you. There are some things you can’t unread.

I am going to direct all this grief and rage back where it belongs and I am going to shape this ocean of emotion into something beautiful and profane. I’m going to let other people who’ve been relegated to the margins know that we too matter and we don’t have to put up with persecution any more. I’m finding my voice in a new way. I’m putting an end to my life of self-abuse and starting the life of my dreams.

This week, someone gave me a metal medallion with “XVII” on it to commemorate my seventeen years of sobriety. Around the edges it reads, “To Thine Own Self Be True.” I’ve heard that expression a million times. I guess I always thought it applied to other people. No more. If I am going to save the world (and I am going to save the world), I have to save myself first.
I’ve asked Mom not to read the blog. There are others of you who shouldn’t read it. You know who you are. If I thought the blue haired ladies of the Walker County churches were reading, I’d edit myself and for me that might mean my life in the end.  I need to write in a raw, sometimes angry, sloppy, non-politically correct way. I need to not be so concerned with whose feelings I’m hurting.  I’m going to write about sex and drugs and maybe even a little rock and roll. If you are a Right-wing Christian Republican, you are going to hate my blog. Please don’t read it. If you are someone I wouldn’t say the word “fuck” in front of, please don’t read my blog. Or if you decide to, fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

As I said, the guillotine is out for now. Does anyone know where I can get a functioning cannon? I could make sure it was returned after its served its purpose and I could pay to have it painted back to its original color (I’m assuming black, how drab) from the carnival colors pattern I’m planning. I’ll need to find a brick wall (symbolism is very important to writers) and I’ll be working without a net. Myra, how are you with clown costumes? Wait. As it happens I already have one.
I’d intended to pick up with the Sonny story today too but I’m afraid I’ll have to pick that up tomorrow. I’m late for the movie. I’m off to see The Kill Team. My disposition has been far too sunny today.


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