Do I look like Jim Carrey to ya?

I don't identify with Igby. That spoiled prick is a junkie for pain in ways I can't even begin to compete with. His father on the hand; well that fella and I could definitely sit and have a drink together. I watched that movie hoping and praying and waiting for the moment he would pull himself out of that funk, tell em to fuck their pressure and do something for himself with his life. I hoped and hoped and hoped, but it really wasn't that kind of movie. I really enjoyed it, but it didn't do anything for my fears about my life. As the feisty one points out here, there are people with real problems in the world so my petty depressions (yours too probably) are really not that important in the grand scheme of things. But damn, aren't there moments you just want to stop and scream? Or pull a Bruce Wayne and just disappear from the world that knows you for a few years? It's amazing how even the most prosaic of events will trigger this set of fears. This afternoon, at the Chelsea Health Clinic, I assured the nice lady that I didn't sleep with men, exchange drugs or money for sex and use needles for anything they weren't intended for. She then oohed and aahed over my sneakers ((cause I'm fresh and clean that way) and while filling out details, asked me a bit about myself. I gave the answers dutifully, and waited for it. "Really? Oh great. Very impressive, You're a very bright young man, with a great future ahead of you." If I could get one the many that repeat these set of lines to live that future me, I'd be happy to just go take a long nap and watch on a TV screen. I've done fuck all with my life and even though things may look clean and crispy from where you're watching this Truman show, but I'm the one who has to live it and quite frankly ma'am, your observations piss me off. No disrespect intended of course. And this is what I'd like to tell every single person who ever decides what journey I ought to be on with no idea of what's in my head.