Suffer, Heathens!

A friend of mine has suggested that I am clinically depressed (aren't all artists?), but, since it was recently pointed out to me in no uncertain terms that I have solipsism dripping out of every pore of my body, I don't believe that biological chemicals beyond my control are dictating my state of being. I believe that I am the master of the universe, and I am for some reason choosing this deep deep deep existential malaise. In general, I feel like Mickey Rourke. Not that I know what Mickey Rourke feels like. But I can imagine. And it isn't good.

I suppose I suffer from unusually high levels of self-created anhedonia, which was the original title of Woody Allen's masterpiece, Annie Hall. Fortunately, people convinced him that not only did he have the anhedonia he so fondly made films about, but he also sucked at titling his movies. Despite Alvy Singer's condition, however, Annie Hall is basically a compendium of sweet, pleasurable memories—counter to what one would think Alvy Singer would be capable of, what, with his surface neuroses and analysts and all.

I don't know what the point of this post is, but it does remind me of an acting class I took in college. I would write comedic scenes and perform them with classmates, instead of choosing stuff from scene books. When the professor asked me why I wrote comedy, I quickly replied with mock dramatics, "To hide the pain!" I got my laugh. As comedian Rick Reynolds once pointed out, "Only the truth is funny."

—Reporting From Glendale, California

1 comment:

  1. Anonymous6/13/2007

    You're RIGHT. You DON'T what Mickey Rourke feels like!