Dear Joe...

My therapist diagnosed me with “SNL” disease. I’m not even fucked up enough to get a real diagnosis. Not bi-polar. Not manic depressive. Nothing cool that can provide me with pills and a weekly support group in a church basement. With stale cookies, and bad coffee, and some overly positive woman with a floral dress and big permed hair giving me hugs and telling me about Jesus and all that. I’m so screwed up that he made up a syndrome based on a comedy sketch show. His explanation was that, I use humor to cover up the trauma in my life. He said that when I talked about myself, it was as if I was telling a story about someone else; like I was reading from a book. I was apparently, emotionally detached from the shit that’s being carried around in my brain. And I am only happy when people are laughing at me. Or with me. Or when I can be the center of attention. And once the show ends. And the crowd leaves. And the comedy is over, I go home and cry. Self medicate with drugs and liquor. So...

Oh nostalgia. You sneaky little bastard. The thing about aging, is that you tend to collect things. You hold on to things. I guess, you get more sentimental. When suddenly faced with your impending death, and more traumatic, sagging titties, you keep little things that make you feel young and lovely. For example, tonight: I'm wearing my Metallica t-shirt, that I used for a Halloween costume about 4 years ago when I was Axel Rose. (How ironic) with my best friend Desiree. Best costume in the world. And best friend in the world. All the tears, and makeup and vomit she's cleaned up of mine over the years haha. Woman needs an award. I'm wearing two of my grandmothers rings that I promise to never remove. (RIP Esther) I don't believe in magic, but they bring me some sort of focus and clarity. It's all mental I know, but each time I look down, I think of what advice she would give me, or what she would say about whatever situation I was going through. I still...