cellini's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Heartbreak, forever The more things change, the more they stay the same. For the last year I have been writing for Sm1ths0nian Magazine, freelancing, but under a contract. As before, millions of people have read my work. I'm lecturing at the Institution in December. I spent two years before that writing hard science features for The Washington Post. And I'm pretty proud of that work. A bunch of other TV shows have been spun up into development. Things that I wrote that people are trying to turn into shows. The most advanced is something that I don't even have to personally appear in. A celebrity chef, R01 Ch01, just signed a deal to host. This will probably be my salvation. I should get a lot of money for this. Meanwhile, I've been waiting to live. Last year I went to Kenya for a story and ended up introducing baseball to a village in Kenya. This time last year, I was in love with a woman and had fully committed. All in. A story for another time. I had decided that I would go for it one last time, all-in, absolutely devoted. She left. I spent three weeks covering the Rolling Stone defamation trial for a major newspaper last month into this month. It was nice having co-workers, as it were. Showing up at the court house with other journalists, people to talk to each day. Now I'm owed something like five grand for all of that. It sure would be nice if the NYP would fucking pay my invoices already. The production company for the new show wants me to come to LA for six weeks to work on the pre-production of the show. Having a researcher from Smithson1an is a nice feather in their cap. The below-the-line work will be really, really nice but I have to go in and fight about being above the line because that is money that can re-boot my life for years. I don't think that I am going to get over the loss of Helenah. That would have happened already. I flew to London to spend 5 days with her and I brought a ring with me. She was awful to me. And very distant. She had turned back into the Swede. A Scandanavian in America is not the same person that she is in her home country. It was one of the worst weeks in my life. We parted in Heathrow, headed to different gates, collapsed on the carpet and both sobbing in each other's arms as hundreds of people watched. I told her that I had to go home with her ring in my pocket. The best friend that I ever had is gone. I wanted to marry her and spend the rest of my life with her. It never gets any better. Even after what must be about two years. The idea of a future seems impossible. I wake up and don't know why I still exist. My heart is broken entirely. At random points in a day, I find myself hunched over and crying. Judging by a quotient of happiness to sorrow, I probably should have killed myself the day after Heathrow. A lot of awful things have happened in the last few years. Not much good, to be honest. These periodic flashes with fame don't do jack shit for me anymore. Another day at work. Trish got fat and interminably dull. Being alone has never gotten any easier. I want a life with someone but it is hard to imagine ever trusting another human being again. 2:10 a.m. - 2016-11-21 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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