Do I even sleep anymore or do I just take long naps?
Cooking Dirty by Jason Sheehan
Autobiographies share a therapeutic claim: It’s mostly bad until it gets good, with beautiful epiphanies in between. Prescribed to people looking to be reassured it’ll all turn out alright. But better autobios have something extra, something equivalent to showing up for work naked, baring the third nipple only your mother will love you for. The one that looks like a mangled mole but is the size of a boob okay I’ll stop now.
The good and the bad are always in autobiographies. But the ugly? The one that probably hurts to write? Cooking Dirty has it. Though Sheehan slams himself as an alcoholic-junkie-nutjob so much the claim loses its edge, and he makes light of things like rage culture in the kitchen (reminds me of this article), he makes it through to the end of the book without devaluing his culinary experience.
Or maybe I’m biased because I like how Cooking Dirty affirmed my philosophical belief that we’re all fuckups just desperately trying to be less so. I like that the book didn’t have that one life-altering eureka! moment where suddenly his world was brighter and he wasn’t messed up anymore. He just did what he had to do and learned to deal with the curveballs better bit by bit, sometimes he got lucky sometimes he didn’t, all while keeping his allegedly nutty personality intact. And that’s okay.
The jokes were a bit predictable in the beginning but somewhere he got better at humor and I was snorting juice out of my nose. And this book sure made me feel better about my older-but-not-wiser state. Therapeutic claim, approved.
P.S. I wrote about this book previously here, how I’d been looking for a Book Sale copy 2 years now. I did find one, finally. And it’s in paperback!
well… well first off, i’d say, seek professional help immediately. because i am wildly unqualified to answer your question with anything but experience. and first off, my experience says, if you are in such a deep and dark place where you say things like this to total strangers on the internet, you need to be in contact with someone that can help you start to heal.
second, i’d say… you’re wrong. i’d say the things any of us don’t know, especially about tomorrow, could blanket every grain of sand on every beach of the world with bullshit. And to simply assume you are done tomorrow because you are done today is a mistake. a factual mistake, an error, a critical miscalculation.
i’d say, read Tad Friend’s piece JUMPERS in which he seeks and finds and talks to people that jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge — and lived. And they all say the same variations this: “I instantly realized that everything in my life that I’d thought was unfixable was totally fixable—except for having just jumped.”
And know that this piece has kept me in my seat on more than a couple dark nights.
And i’d say — i’d say i felt that way before too, and i was wrong.
And then i’d tell you something i don’t even think my wife knows. this happend years before we met — shit, more than a decade — and it’s not the first time i came close to suicide was on a thanksgiving night. i’d eaten well and then as the house shut down i went into the bathroom, drew a bath as hot as i could manage to stand, and climbed into the tub with a razor blade.
As i started to cut, as the corner touched my skin and that jolt of pain fired into my head, i stopped and thought — y’know, last chance. Are you SURE?
And i was tired. I sounded like you, that i knew there’d be ups again and downs but i was just so fucking TIRED i couldn’t stand the thought of having to get there. I felt this… this never-ending crush of days that were grey and tepid but for some reason i was supposed to greet each one with a smile. the constant pressure of having to keep my shit in all the time was just exhausting.
I wondered, then — well, is there anything you’re curious about. Anything you want to see play out. And i thought of a comic i was reading and i’d not figured out the end of the current storyline. And i realized I had curiosity. And that was the hook i’d hang my hat on. that by wanting to see how something played out I wasn’t really ready. That little sprout of a thing poking up through all that black earth kept me around a little longer.
I realized then that it had been so long since i’d laughed. I was numbed out and shut down and just… i missed laughing. maybe if i laughed a little i could get moving again. so i’d wait for my comic to conclude, try to find a few laughs, and then reevaluate.
So I’m in the bathtub and i got this real sharp-ass razor, right? And i look down and there’s all my bits floating in the water like they do and i thought okay, let’s get funny and i got to work.
I shaved off exactly half my pubic hair vertically. The end result was a ‘fro of pubes that looked like a Chia Pet that only half-worked. I started to laugh as I did it. And every time i’d piss, looking down made me laugh.
Because JESUS what a nightmare.
Shortly thereafter I got very heavily into Chuck Jones and Tex Avery. Way less chafing and way more funny.
jesus. i was still in high school at the time. dig if you will a picture of the chubby weirdo that was always giggling at his dick in the bathroom. that was me.
And then I guess I’d tell you about Dave, who did the same thing as me a few years later, only DIDN’T have my hilarious Chia Dick strategy in mind and got the razor in and up. And as he started to bleed out “Brown Eyed Girl” came on the radio and he realized he’d never get to hear that again so, in a bloody comedy of errors — I swear to god this is true — he got out of the tub, tried to get dressed the best he could, went downstairs calling for help only to find his family gone, went out to his car, and drove to doug’s house only to find doug not home and so, then, finally, he blacked out from blood loss sitting there in his car, playing a van morrison CD on repeat, until, by luck, Doug’s mom came home and found him.
Fucking Van Morrison, y’know?
A song, a comic, something dumb, something small. From that seed can come everything else, I swear to god.
I guess last I’d say… I’d say that, look — if you reached out to me for an answer, than I have to reach back out to you and insist you hear it. Because it means, what, you know me? My work? You read my stuff and thought, well, fuck, if anyone would know why I shouldn’t end my life, if anyone alive is QUALIFIED TO SAVE ME it’s the guy that had britney spears punch a bear? okay — okay, then, so as THAT GUY I’m saying: Get help. Now, today, tonight, whenever — get to a phone and find a doctor that can try to help you heal, that can try to recolorize your world again, that can help you start caring again. All you need is that one tiny thing, that speck, that little grain of sand. the World Series, AVENGERS 2, Tina Fey’s new show, the first issue of PRETTY DEADLY, some slice of the world you’ve never seen, some drink you love, who the fuck will love your dog like you do if you’re gone, what if jabrams KILLS it on the new STAR WARS, the hell are you doing for Halloween, you ever feed a dolphin with your bare hand? because i have and I am fucking telling you IT IS A THING TO EXPERIENCE and oh god WHAT FUCKING FONT WILL STARBUCKS USE ON THE CHRISTMAS DRINK SLEEVES THIS YEAR — i don’t care what or how dumb but i promise you somewhere in your life is that one fleck of dust that can help start you on the road back. That’s all it takes. One fucking mote, drifting through your head.
And because you asked me I am answering you because i know, motherfucker, i know, i know, i know the hole you are fucking in because I was there myself and if you look hard you can still see my writing on those walls and if you stare long enough i swear to god it’s pointing to up
I’ve reblogged this before, but it seems awfully relevant to put it out there again.
Next time, don’t throw things against the wall out of frustration. Especially your last eraser. Especially when your deadline is today. Because it might bounce into that corner of the bed with the discarded boxes and books—the dark abyss where you suspect all your lost erasers are. Would you dare reach into that abyss? Nooooo. Could you even fit your hand in there? Noooooo. Instead, you will write a post on Tumblr attempting to make light of the situation.
P.S.: Seriously, stop throwing things. Brute.
Most tips on where to start watching Doctor Who assert that beginners must start with the Steven Moffat edition (Eleventh Doctor, Matt Smith). Nobody said anything about the quote-unquote heroine, Amy Pond, who does the most self-centered, obnoxious things. And what is with the pouting?? More irritating is how she prances around like she saved the day—which she sometimes actually does, ugh, maybe to glaze over the fact that she was a burden the whole time. The girl’s more plot device than character, really.
I have heard that Steven Moffat is a misogynist. I can’t account for that but I do know what he did to Irene Adler. In the original A Scandal in Bohemia, Irene outsmarted Sherlock and he only found out how because she explained it to him in a letter. (After she escaped with her husband, that is.) In the BBC series, Irene was reduced as a mere love interest. She was smart but only until she let her feelings take over. AWWW. And she would’ve died a horrible death if Sherlock didn’t come to her rescue. DOUBLE AWWWW. Fucking craptastic. The guy makes money out of creating shoddy heroines.
But even if I’ve had enough of Moffat’s Doctor and Pond’s pouting, I’m not about to lose my faith in time travel tales. I’m gonna backtrack to the beginning of the reboot and hope the Doctor’s past companions won’t make me want to gouge my eyes out with a sonic screwdriver.