Last Night's Cry for Help
there's no real reason to post this, except that i felt it was of utmost importance last night when I wrote it. If you find this sort of thing interesting, read on. It's melodramatic, long, and incredibly whiny, but it encapsulates a lot of what I've been feeling this month.
10/29/05 4:00AM
This is the type of thing that begs for baseless compliments and hollow flattery. I want none of that. Whatever you tell me, I will seriously consider. I’ll get to the brunt of it first, so you don’t have to read the rest of my depressed ramblings, which will follow.
What am I doing here? This question is cliche's grandathere. I’m not so much interested in the HERE as the DOING. Moreover, what am I doing wrong? Why haven’t I ever been happy? Why won’t I?
Now, the preamble. Post.
Dear Chicago,
my name is Eric lab Rat,
my name is Eric lab Rat because I will try anything short of leaving the city
[that’s bullshit. Let me start over]
Dear Chicago,
My name is Eric lab Rat
because I was prescribed a lot of pills as a child, and I thought it made a good punk rock name
like Ben Stupid
whom I hero-worshipped at fifteen
like Claire Logic, Wheatboy Dave, and Gen Schock
older kids who did nothing specialer than make zines and play in bands
like Ben Weasel and Sid Vicious
and a million other musicians I wanted to be because I didn't set very lofty goals
[this is less bullshit, but again, I should start over]
Dear Myspace.com,
my name is Eric Strom
that’s what’s on my birth certificate
in the eyes of the Lord, I am Mikhael ben Mayer
by the traditions I’ve cooked up in my head, I am Mikhael Wassershtraum
the first name means ‘God will smite’; the second means ‘waterstream’
if I have a child, he will be a Wassershhtraum
my middle name is Maxwell
after the street my family’s store was on for the first half of the last century
nobody keeps the name Eric. There are dozens of famous Erics out there living under assumed names
the last two I learned of were Jello Biafra and George Orwell
‘Eric’ is the name of a guy my Mom used to date. It’s an archetype of a guy for her: “I’ve never met an Eric who wasn’t nice she says.”
I hate myself for being nice, at least I hate myself for acting nice a lot.
So
Dear Myspace friends
there are about 300 of you
subtract all of the double aliases, pets, ex-girlfriends of current and former friends, dead writers and organizations
there’s still a solid 250
and a girl named Skye that I may or may not know who’s a friend of Jamie Nichols, who has two profiles. She doesn’t have a picture up.
The rest? You don't know it but I’ve had a crush on over half of you. (And I say 'crush on' where I should say 'lusted after'. I don't want to sound cuter than I am) I’ve been jealous of most of you. I’m inspired by all of you, even though I can assure you I’ve made fun of every last one of you behind your back. I’ve taught a couple of you, drank with almost all of you, and a few dozen of you have met my parents.
Most of you know I spend the bulk of my free time at house parties and basement shows. Most of you do not know that I make a lot of lists.
Some of you know that I’ve been battling depression since I was five. Some of you know it but do not realize the extent. Some of you have no idea, and some of you think I'm happy, even enviably so. I may be, but I don't think so. You’re all polite enough not to mention the scars on my right arm. At least the ones who’ve noticed them. Some of you were around when I wouldn’t let them heal. Some of you never knew I cut. Only two of you ever knew I was bulimic, and I’m not sure how many of you know that my drinking problems two years ago were the result of mixing alcohol with the diet pills I was taking (and overtaking) trying to battle my weight problem. I suffered alcohol poisoning about four times during that period.
While I’m being so self indulently chatty, I will take this time to apologize to Nikole Bennett, Catherine McGowan, and Secret Agent Bill for my behavior at the time. Less to the band, though, because I'd known you guys longer and you didn’t have my back, you didn’t straighten me out yourselves, and all of you except Ben were too big a group of douchebags to be cool with me, even after all the people you screwed over when you were coke fiends. I cost you a venue and got my face stomped little. Big deal. Catherine and Nikole, Myspace friends and friends in real life that I don't get to see nearly enough, you were cool the whole time, so don't think that that last part was directed at you. But I digress. Usually, I cheer up in large groups of people, and most of the time, I can cure my depression with a party.
Today I worked at one party and attended three. I saw two good bands, two great bands, and one shitty dj. I did not feel better.
A lot of you think that I know a lot of people because wherever I go, I run into someone. This is not true.
Today I went to a party where there were dozens of people I’ve known for years. I’d be hard pressed to find more than three of them who remembered my name, and I reminded those three at a party last week. A girl I went to high school with snuck off to have sex with a guy I went to grade school with. Six and Eleven years ago, I lusted after her and made fun of him. He was the weird kid and she was a feminist warrior. He’s become a drunken genius and she’s become a punchline and I defend them behind their backs. They don’t need it, though, because they don’t care like I do. And because they’re fucking each other in the bathroom of a punk house.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that I am fat and the fact that I am ugly. Do not try to argue this because I know that this is true, and in my mind, where every day feels like three and all things read in hyperbole, I am the fattest and ugliest man there has ever been. I have come to terms with the fact that I am fat and the fact that I am ugly but it still makes me sad to know that however hard I work out and however nice or as mean or as earnest as I try to be, I will never be as attractive as I would find acceptable and I will never have the sex life I want. Even in love, which I’ve given up on, and perhaps especially in love, which scares the shit out of me.
I am an alright dancer. For my size I am a great dancer. When I have a partner, I am incredible. If I’m reasonably drunk, meaning not drunk beyond reasoning, I can follow just about anyone, but I do not have any dance partners, and that makes me sad. Yesterday I danced for 2 and a half hours; and for all but fifteen minutes I’ve danced alone. I’m sick of being pathetic, but I don’t know how to change.
I’m writing this on a stolen laptop. I do not make many extravagant purchases but two weeks ago, I bought a laptop for $100 and a tricycle for $150. The laptop is buggy and the tricycle was missing a few nuts and bolts. Neither problem reared its head until about a week after purchase. Still, I was happy. A year ago I made a list of things I wanted. There were three entries: (1) a grown man’s tricycle, (2)a laptop, and (3) a theremin. I was overjoyed when I got my tricycle. I’ve been looking for months. Because of a sensory motor disorder I suffered as a child, I never learned how to ride a two-wheeler, so when I rode down the street with the autumn trees dropping leaves above I got a rush of feelings I’d been denied for over sixteen years. The laptop belonged to R_____ Jolly. The software is registered under his name and his resume was still on the harddrive when I bought it. I’ve watched and erased the home movies he made of his family. He’s Jewish. His kids call his mother Bubbe. I made no attempt to give it back to him. Because of my callousness, my trike was stolen today. Right in front of the repair shop, where I’d locked it. The thief had swapped another bike (two wheels) for mine, left unattended against the railing, but I didn’t want to be a part of anyone else’s misery and loss so I left it there. Karma is a superstition legitimized only because of the distance from the West of its origin. My theremin’s antenna is broke and I haven’t played it in momths, and all I’m left with is this laptop, less expensive, less fun, and less than what I originally wanted. I made 300 dollars today; it will all surely go to the new bike. Easy come. Easy go.
There was a horoscope in the Onion a few years ago that I use as a bookmark:
Libra
While you would like to be remembered for the ineffable human qualities of your poetry, you will really only be remembered as a guy who threw really bitchin parties.
I feel like a nobody, a nobody who knows everybody. I’ve been performing under this stupid name for eight years now, and if feels like no one has ever seen me perform.
If I were brave and not petty, or maybe a bit of both, this would be my suicide note. It's beautiful in that there is nothing beautiful in it. No prose to pore over. Nothing. I would not stick around to read the responses I asked for. They would be a secret testament to my life. But I am not brave and I am very petty. I will read whatever it is you have to tell me about myself, and I will make an excuse for not ending it.
I want to listen to music when I die. Classical music, or maybe funk; something instrumental and moving. Right now, I do not have a cd player that I can move to the bathroom. Or a cassette player, or a player of mp3s. This is a valid excuse for a dj, but an excuse nonetheless. Do not worry, this isn’t a cry for help, I just needed to get this off my chest and this is just a call for attention, and answers.
What am I? Who am I to you? What’s the point.
Don’t leave your responses as a comment. Email me or send them to me direct. I love you. Good night
10/29/05 4:00AM
This is the type of thing that begs for baseless compliments and hollow flattery. I want none of that. Whatever you tell me, I will seriously consider. I’ll get to the brunt of it first, so you don’t have to read the rest of my depressed ramblings, which will follow.
What am I doing here? This question is cliche's grandathere. I’m not so much interested in the HERE as the DOING. Moreover, what am I doing wrong? Why haven’t I ever been happy? Why won’t I?
Now, the preamble. Post.
Dear Chicago,
my name is Eric lab Rat,
my name is Eric lab Rat because I will try anything short of leaving the city
[that’s bullshit. Let me start over]
Dear Chicago,
My name is Eric lab Rat
because I was prescribed a lot of pills as a child, and I thought it made a good punk rock name
like Ben Stupid
whom I hero-worshipped at fifteen
like Claire Logic, Wheatboy Dave, and Gen Schock
older kids who did nothing specialer than make zines and play in bands
like Ben Weasel and Sid Vicious
and a million other musicians I wanted to be because I didn't set very lofty goals
[this is less bullshit, but again, I should start over]
Dear Myspace.com,
my name is Eric Strom
that’s what’s on my birth certificate
in the eyes of the Lord, I am Mikhael ben Mayer
by the traditions I’ve cooked up in my head, I am Mikhael Wassershtraum
the first name means ‘God will smite’; the second means ‘waterstream’
if I have a child, he will be a Wassershhtraum
my middle name is Maxwell
after the street my family’s store was on for the first half of the last century
nobody keeps the name Eric. There are dozens of famous Erics out there living under assumed names
the last two I learned of were Jello Biafra and George Orwell
‘Eric’ is the name of a guy my Mom used to date. It’s an archetype of a guy for her: “I’ve never met an Eric who wasn’t nice she says.”
I hate myself for being nice, at least I hate myself for acting nice a lot.
So
Dear Myspace friends
there are about 300 of you
subtract all of the double aliases, pets, ex-girlfriends of current and former friends, dead writers and organizations
there’s still a solid 250
and a girl named Skye that I may or may not know who’s a friend of Jamie Nichols, who has two profiles. She doesn’t have a picture up.
The rest? You don't know it but I’ve had a crush on over half of you. (And I say 'crush on' where I should say 'lusted after'. I don't want to sound cuter than I am) I’ve been jealous of most of you. I’m inspired by all of you, even though I can assure you I’ve made fun of every last one of you behind your back. I’ve taught a couple of you, drank with almost all of you, and a few dozen of you have met my parents.
Most of you know I spend the bulk of my free time at house parties and basement shows. Most of you do not know that I make a lot of lists.
Some of you know that I’ve been battling depression since I was five. Some of you know it but do not realize the extent. Some of you have no idea, and some of you think I'm happy, even enviably so. I may be, but I don't think so. You’re all polite enough not to mention the scars on my right arm. At least the ones who’ve noticed them. Some of you were around when I wouldn’t let them heal. Some of you never knew I cut. Only two of you ever knew I was bulimic, and I’m not sure how many of you know that my drinking problems two years ago were the result of mixing alcohol with the diet pills I was taking (and overtaking) trying to battle my weight problem. I suffered alcohol poisoning about four times during that period.
While I’m being so self indulently chatty, I will take this time to apologize to Nikole Bennett, Catherine McGowan, and Secret Agent Bill for my behavior at the time. Less to the band, though, because I'd known you guys longer and you didn’t have my back, you didn’t straighten me out yourselves, and all of you except Ben were too big a group of douchebags to be cool with me, even after all the people you screwed over when you were coke fiends. I cost you a venue and got my face stomped little. Big deal. Catherine and Nikole, Myspace friends and friends in real life that I don't get to see nearly enough, you were cool the whole time, so don't think that that last part was directed at you. But I digress. Usually, I cheer up in large groups of people, and most of the time, I can cure my depression with a party.
Today I worked at one party and attended three. I saw two good bands, two great bands, and one shitty dj. I did not feel better.
A lot of you think that I know a lot of people because wherever I go, I run into someone. This is not true.
Today I went to a party where there were dozens of people I’ve known for years. I’d be hard pressed to find more than three of them who remembered my name, and I reminded those three at a party last week. A girl I went to high school with snuck off to have sex with a guy I went to grade school with. Six and Eleven years ago, I lusted after her and made fun of him. He was the weird kid and she was a feminist warrior. He’s become a drunken genius and she’s become a punchline and I defend them behind their backs. They don’t need it, though, because they don’t care like I do. And because they’re fucking each other in the bathroom of a punk house.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that I am fat and the fact that I am ugly. Do not try to argue this because I know that this is true, and in my mind, where every day feels like three and all things read in hyperbole, I am the fattest and ugliest man there has ever been. I have come to terms with the fact that I am fat and the fact that I am ugly but it still makes me sad to know that however hard I work out and however nice or as mean or as earnest as I try to be, I will never be as attractive as I would find acceptable and I will never have the sex life I want. Even in love, which I’ve given up on, and perhaps especially in love, which scares the shit out of me.
I am an alright dancer. For my size I am a great dancer. When I have a partner, I am incredible. If I’m reasonably drunk, meaning not drunk beyond reasoning, I can follow just about anyone, but I do not have any dance partners, and that makes me sad. Yesterday I danced for 2 and a half hours; and for all but fifteen minutes I’ve danced alone. I’m sick of being pathetic, but I don’t know how to change.
I’m writing this on a stolen laptop. I do not make many extravagant purchases but two weeks ago, I bought a laptop for $100 and a tricycle for $150. The laptop is buggy and the tricycle was missing a few nuts and bolts. Neither problem reared its head until about a week after purchase. Still, I was happy. A year ago I made a list of things I wanted. There were three entries: (1) a grown man’s tricycle, (2)a laptop, and (3) a theremin. I was overjoyed when I got my tricycle. I’ve been looking for months. Because of a sensory motor disorder I suffered as a child, I never learned how to ride a two-wheeler, so when I rode down the street with the autumn trees dropping leaves above I got a rush of feelings I’d been denied for over sixteen years. The laptop belonged to R_____ Jolly. The software is registered under his name and his resume was still on the harddrive when I bought it. I’ve watched and erased the home movies he made of his family. He’s Jewish. His kids call his mother Bubbe. I made no attempt to give it back to him. Because of my callousness, my trike was stolen today. Right in front of the repair shop, where I’d locked it. The thief had swapped another bike (two wheels) for mine, left unattended against the railing, but I didn’t want to be a part of anyone else’s misery and loss so I left it there. Karma is a superstition legitimized only because of the distance from the West of its origin. My theremin’s antenna is broke and I haven’t played it in momths, and all I’m left with is this laptop, less expensive, less fun, and less than what I originally wanted. I made 300 dollars today; it will all surely go to the new bike. Easy come. Easy go.
There was a horoscope in the Onion a few years ago that I use as a bookmark:
Libra
While you would like to be remembered for the ineffable human qualities of your poetry, you will really only be remembered as a guy who threw really bitchin parties.
I feel like a nobody, a nobody who knows everybody. I’ve been performing under this stupid name for eight years now, and if feels like no one has ever seen me perform.
If I were brave and not petty, or maybe a bit of both, this would be my suicide note. It's beautiful in that there is nothing beautiful in it. No prose to pore over. Nothing. I would not stick around to read the responses I asked for. They would be a secret testament to my life. But I am not brave and I am very petty. I will read whatever it is you have to tell me about myself, and I will make an excuse for not ending it.
I want to listen to music when I die. Classical music, or maybe funk; something instrumental and moving. Right now, I do not have a cd player that I can move to the bathroom. Or a cassette player, or a player of mp3s. This is a valid excuse for a dj, but an excuse nonetheless. Do not worry, this isn’t a cry for help, I just needed to get this off my chest and this is just a call for attention, and answers.
What am I? Who am I to you? What’s the point.
Don’t leave your responses as a comment. Email me or send them to me direct. I love you. Good night
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