ericboy's Diaryland Diary

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\"Clouds to defend / will make us high / and lift me up again\" - Centaur

Thank... something! I'm finally able to get in.
Things have been peculiar as of late. I've been depressed more frequently, and trudging through old thoughts, memories, and patterns that I shouldn't.
The show Friday with Worth Every Scar was fucking awesome! I am so happy to be singing with a band again. Especially one that I like and fervently believe that others will like. Several of my friends from the theater were there, and though I was concerned that they wouldn't enjoy the very hard and angry edge to our music, they all seemed to receive it quite well. The three who were fans of hardcore said that it filled the bill nicely, whereas the two who didn't care much for the yelling and turning red complimented me on my singing voice, saying it was one of the finest that they'd heard in a live format. That, coupled with the fact that it often came out sandwiched between blood-curdling screams, I took as soaring praise. The old singer even came to the show. He said that he enjoyed what I brought to the music and felt that the three new songs were moving in a much harder direction than the band had before. He went so far as to compare my vocal stylings with System of a Down, which I took as a compliment. We have two shows booked for January so far and we're hoping to record our new demo in February.
Despite this fact, I've felt unaccomplished since stepping of stage on that day. Work has been a horrible melee of angry Christmas shoppers with bitter faces, and I've fended them off well. I just feel so alone. And my fucking bank...
I STILL have not received a replacement ATM card in the mail from them since their malfunctioning machine ate my card more than a month ago. This means that, though I have money, I'm essentially broke. To compound this, my new cell-phone is out of charge and, hence, inoperable. Since I have no accessible funds, I can't buy a charger for it. Ha-ha! Add to all that the fact that my checkbook is deficient of checks (They're in storage) and this evening my watch stopped working. A little thing is just that: A little thing. But several little things combine, like a Transformers Quintet, and become a big thing... and drive me fucking batshit!!
When I get depressed, I want two things: to sleep and eat. I binge on both. I'm such a child in that sense. Okay, in a lot of senses. I've been harping too deeply on some of my more palpable losses as of late and I really should stop. Maybe it's just the season, maybe there's no reason. I don't know. All I do know is that I have a stirring sense of dejavu washing over me right now. Or maybe that's nausea from the vodka-and-cherry-seven-up. Who cares?
I'm tired and I should be sleeping but that hapless feeling of being unaccomplished prevents me from lying my head until I crank out words, be they useless or otherwise.
All night long, sirens from various emergency vehicles have colored the side of my building in harsh light and bitter cacophony. Apparently, some people out there are either partying too hard or suffering alone. Somehow, I feel in-between.
My bassist, Israel, asked me what my goals were for the band in the near future. I said: for the next few months I want to get the song-list built up and play as many gigs as possible, saturating San Diego with our name. Then a mini-tour, then a real recording session by late 2005. Within two years, I want to see Worth Every Scar nominated for a San Diego Music Award.
I really should sleep. I can feel my head stretching outside its comfort-zone. I've gone beyond my own boundaries; broken my own word. Yes. Sleep seems nice. Tomorrow I get to binge on food and sleep and yell at my bank. And that's all. God help me.

12:31 a.m. - 2004-12-22

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