Back after a long shift at Rocket with Sara. Depressed as fuck. I�m gonna skip out on the writing I would have liked to do (something more down to earth and real) and just plow through more of Strange Angels. I’ve got a lot to do there. I’m listening to Tosca�s Suzuki right now. It�s helping a little. And the tequila�s helping some as well (while giving me heartburn.) It�s just one of those moods where sitting and talking to someone about shit would help a lot, but at the same time, tracking someone down to talk to would be like advertising the depression, which is, itself, depressing, so fuck that.

Most people made it in early to Rocket to drop off their flicks today. When Sara and I came in to work, Ryan and Mike were finishing up eight hours of killer returns. The early part of the evening was annoyingly busy, but by late shift, most of the customers were people I tend to think of as pretty cool, meaning people whose names I know and who tend to make pretty cool conversation. Mercedes, Gina, Jeffrey, Alexandra, Kevin, and a host of others. We threw Trading Places on the tube, then Trainspotting, and then finished off the night with the thoroughly depressing Less Than Zero. Actually, Sara found it more depressing than I did, but since I was already depressed, it just kinda rolled off my back.

On depression…

I’m actually pretty depressed anyway, these days. The first thing to go is the sense of humor. Maybe it’s a temporary thing, but my laughter during the past week has been of the more weary type. Not writing much, not getting too much exercise. Hating my day job. But the good thing, I’m reminded, is that depression can sometimes be a fertile ground for the imagination. Cirsumstance stomps on my right brain with studded boots, but perhaps the resultant gooey mess will reshape itself into something robust and sinewy. I’ve already got some glimpses into another project, something strange and independent. Something along the lines of the novel that I always imagine someday I’ll write. It’s the thing I call Blush, and though I’ve claimed it’ll be about the Lisa Smith farce of a few years ago, it’s best if I just throw all that nonsense into the blender and dip my quill into the resultant sludge.

I dunno. Strange Angels limps towards completion. I think it’ll be good. But I’m jonesing for a new direction. I’m tired of writing the action-adventure thing. Maybe it’s time to fuck with things a little bit.