The Straits of Magellan

The pop-fuzz of the light bulb burning out haunted me. Things have a certain transience, and it's sad. When all you take for granted is light, the room for improvement is narrowing.

I intellectually kidnap every idea I've ever had. When something strikes me--for instance, when I was in college, I had this great idea about superheros in a dorm setting, a kind of Dawson's-Creek-meets-the-X-Men kind of thing--I feel the need to share this idea with someone. And as soon as I open my mouth--as soon as the syllables come out--Seth Green has that shit wrapped for a comic, or a shitty CW series, or some other abomination. This guy has sleeper agents all over the country, listening in to what I'm doing, taking all the credit. "Bitter" does not even begin to describe my feelings towards his work; it's entertaining, yes, but only so far as abortions can be entertaining. My work is pure like a rich, untapped vein of gold, while his is accessible and marketable. That's not art! That's robbery. I would stop short of saying he needs to go to prison and be raped, but you know... He needs to go to prison and get raped.

On the other hand, I'm curious about the "ownership of ideas." Our modern economy is built upon this principle. Seriously, look at some of this high-level shit going on, like this Goldman Sachs debacle. They're in trouble for making theoretical bets on hypothetical situations. I'm not defending their actions--i.e. the manipulation of livelihoods in order to eek out profit--but that's some Grade-A mental arithmetic right there. Who am I to judge Seth Green (a talented guy, who seems pretty cool in his own right) for taking the ethereal from me? Do you punch a dude in the face for breathing your air? "Hey, prick," you seethe, "That's my fucking oxygen."

It's a dangerous precipice. "Intellectual property" and the copyright laws that define it are muddy and open to interpretation and just disgusting on a whole. I'm not sure I've seen these laws used to enforce the sanctity of an idea so much as I've seen them employed to secure the exploitation of a property. Who gives a shit? A good idea is universal. If his--Seth Green's--interpretations of my work are more suited to mainstream predilections, what right do I have to be pissed off? My hat's off, sir. Well done.

That being said, I'm not going to tell another living soul my idea for my new story until the rights have been sold at auction to a publisher. I will use the industry parlance to describe it, however: "It's a genre-straddling work of epic proportions; it redefines the modern interpretation of family and identity."

Isn't this fun? Hyperbole is an excellent diversion. I was telling a friend tonight how our generation feels this sense of entitlement, and she said it's because we're "the trophy generation," which means rewarded for showing up to the contest. Or responding to the internet invitation. I think this is apt. For one, I apply this line of reasoning in my everyday life--"Hey, I took a pretty good shit a few minutes ago. Complete elimination! Way to go!"--with great results. The discord between reality and this nega-reality--which is informed by media and, most damning, our parents--is staggering.

But I don't really care. I just took an amazing shit. What do I have to worry about?

The Tipping Point

It is deceptively simple how quickly a life can topple. This is a fact I learned only hours ago.

Complacency is a killer. My whole life has been predicated on the notion that "life happens," which is to say that fate or destiny or the invisible hand of god shuffles us around some game board. God, I can't believe that I built my life around that theory. When you write it out, it makes a lot of things just seem arbitrary. My inability to act in my life--no momentum, no effort, nothing--has just cost me the single most important thing in my life.

Sitting here, watching the cursor blink as it waits for my keystrokes, I feel hollow. Watching the person I have loved for so long explain that she can not stand by while I wallow in mediocrity, that she can not trust me because it's always words and no action... What have I done with my life? How did I get here?

How do you measure the potential of a person? I was brilliant yet unambitious in school, charismatic yet cold in social settings; at my jobs, I had a tendency to rise to the top of me field. Those indicators alone should demonstrate that I had potential. Or does it? Can you fake potential? Deep down, am I still that person that's going to really be somebody, or am I always going to be this sad sack?

Worse still: Can you squander potential? Have I procrastinated so long that I'm doomed to this existence--a hollow shell of a person who wakes up, puts on a mask, and goes about his day? That will not do.

I refuse to be that person any longer. My life choices--no, my life indecision--has cost me too much. This is my tipping point--I will no longer be a zombie. Today has been, categorically, the worst day of my life, bar none. But tomorrow I'm going to get things in order. I'm going to build something for myself. At every turn, I have disappointed. That changes now.

I will always, always love you, Terri. I will be the person you saw in me. I am so sorry that this had to happen. It would be so easy to resent you for this, to hate or revile you for upending my life, but you did not do this malice. That's what made it so hard.