GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #753: WALTER WHITE

 

So I had occasion recently to feel like Walter White. No, I didn't become a meth kingpin with a ridiculous amount of corpses under his belt. It was all about a fly.

I don't know how it happened, but before I got my hand surgery my kitchen got infested with flies. They were fucking everywhere. They even got in my my refrigerator, and I have no idea how that happened. My brother suspects that it was because of the crisper. I had to wonder about that because I have never, in all my time living in this place, thought about the crisper. That's because fruits and vegetables go in crispers, and I don't eat those wretched things.

It occurred to me that my brother doesn't, either. So no one would have looked in the crisper since the last time my grandmother did. She's been gone for more than a year, and near the end she wasn't one to poke around the fridge. I can only assume no one has been in the crisper for years.

Maybe it was that. I don't know. But I spent days on end killing flies in the kitchen with a rolled up Fine Print, which is the Elmhurst Public Library's periodical. And every day I fought the flies, one always got away. It's sheer madness to think it's the same fly that eluded me every day, but I think it really was the same.

It made me think of this episode of Breaking Bad. Granted, my kitchen doesn't have a scaffold for me to fall off of, but just about everything about the situation made me think of Walter White.

And that motherfucking fly was a bastard, too. He knew what I was up to, what I wanted. That piece of shit divebombed me every chance he got, and he only landed on things he knew I'd destroy if I tried to hit them. Or it would backfire on me. Like the ceiling fan. Or a window. Etc., etc., etc.

I never did get him. I don't know what the lifespan of a housefly is, but I imagine that scumbag getting away like Kevin Spacey at the end of The Usual Suspects.

It would be nice to go an entire summer without some kind of insect infestation at my place. Whether it's houseflies, ants or bees (yes, BEES), I'm sick of being Walter White.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #150: THE POST-CON DEPRESSION

This is a bit late in posting, but mostly it's because I've been super fucking busy. I just wanted to take a quick second to talk about something that I don't usually see writers discuss: the post-con depression.


There is something magical about a convention. It's exhausting because you have to perform for hours on end, doing your absolute best to sell your books (or, if you're fortunate enough, your table partner's books). Writing is an introverted thing; to suddenly be a book-slinging extrovert is hard to pull off for that kind of personality.


But a writer has to be both. When creating, a writer must be isolated and alone. Yet when selling, a writer must be outgoing and fun and adventurous. When you think about it, it's the perfect combination. It's the yin-yang personality all in one. It's actually a lot of fun because you get to talk with a bunch of strangers that are into the same shit you're into. Most times you don't even have to talk about your own work. You get to talk about cool shit you like, and if you sell a book, cool. That's the best part: talking about cool shit. That even extends to the fortunate few who have a table partner. At Flashback Weekend, I was lucky enough to have MP Johnson by my side. I could talk shop with him for hours on end because we've been at this for the same amount of time, and we have a lot of similar stories. Plus it helps that he's got a deep punk background and has some supercool stories. If you get the chance to work with him and you don't, you're a fool.


I'm wandering a bit from what I meant to talk about, but it's worth noting that hanging out and selling books with MP Johnson is fucking awesome, and it makes the post-con depression a little harder to take because even now, as I go to bed early to make it in time for my square job, I miss it. I miss it a lot.


By the end of Sunday, I was fucking exhausted. Yet I knew it was a rewarding experience, and not just because I sold a bunch of books. I took Monday off to recover, but when I woke up and realized that I couldn't go to Flashback and sell and talk and have fun because it was over, I felt a darkness wash over me. I didn't even want to get out of bed.


(Something else happened, and it hurts me waaaaaaay too much to talk about right now. Maybe someday, but it certainly added to my overwhelming depression that day.)


I don't want to write. I NEED to write, and I've been doing this for a long time. It's great to have the modicum of success I've had, and it's a harbinger of what's to come. But when I clocked into my square job on Tuesday, the finality crept in. I couldn't do the awesome shit I really had fun with because I had to work at a 9-5 (except in my case it's more like 5:45 am to 2:15 pm). I honestly believe I was meant to do these shows and sell books and talk to awesome people all day, every day. To be stuck dealing with a square job? It nearly killed me.


To be fair, my square job is pretty nice. Plus I recently got a promotion. More money, better hours. Not bad, right? But I would much prefer to be doing cons and meeting people and selling shit and--you know. The best is when you have an awesome fellow author to sit at a table with. I've done it with MP Johnson and Kevin Strange, two awesome dudes who never run out of awesome things to say, whether it be about past experience or the industry. I wish I had those guys attached to each hip, just to remind me of how cool the cons are when I'm not stuck with my square job.


I guess the whole point of this rambling piece is to say that I would much rather hang out at cons with awesome people than be stuck at my square job. I'd really like to make that happen before I die. Until then, I guess I'm going to stick it out through the dark times of my mundane life.


PS: For those interested, my grandfather is doing much better. They moved him to hospice, but he's been getting better. I think he might actually be able to come home. Better news: the VA shaved his head. For as long as I've known him (ie. my entire life), he's been trying to pull off the worst comb-over in history. My grandmother noted that he looks like Bryan Cranston on BREAKING BAD, and I couldn't believe her. Not until I saw him. Holy shit, he looks younger and tougher than he's been in a while. I think he might actually pull through this. I'm an atheist, but I thank you all for your prayers. Your thoughts. All the friends who offered to help me. Everything and everyone. I wanted #150 to be a blockbuster, but it doesn't seem like much. Yet at the same time, it does. I think all of the anniversaries have something to do with Gramps.


Thank you, and goodnight.