I feel like the glass is half empty and the other half is filled with pus-soaked man shit. It usually happens this time of year -- I'm sleep-deprived, malnourished, overstimulated, under-exercised and hypersensitive. My plate is full and the more I devour, the more "do this" gets spiked onto my fork. I know, it's part of the job people would kill for and I'm comfortably rewarded for my efforts, but it still doesn't change the experience. I'm incredibly fragile. When I hear about interweb cunts complaining about episodes or actors grumbling about scripts or studio bottom-line woes, I can't process it. I want to load my fucking proverbial shotgun, put on my designer trench-coat and reduce every fucking living thing to sprinkles and confetti.
Then vacuum it up. My OCD.
But I don't. For the most part, I live in a constant state of restraint. Pen, tongue, fists. Twitter is most my most egregious outlet these days. And how much damage can a guy do in 140 characters?
Anyway, I tremendously hate everything and everyone in this moment. Except my wife and kids, I hate them a little less. I'm knuckling down, scrambling to finish a hundred other things so I can focus on prepping 413 -- which I start directing next week. Directing always seems like a good idea in March. October, not so much. I'm sure we will finish as strongly as we started. I'm smart enough to surround myself with people who wouldn't let me fuck it up even if I wanted to.
Which I don't.
Wow, the coyotes are howling like mad outside my home office. I think they just killed my neighbor's dog. That makes me feel a little better. I don't really like that dog.