Lose Your Illusion

The only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open.

I love Chuck Palahnuik – had to Google the spelling of his last name because it’s more complicated than mine – but I love him.  Maybe because I get off on raw and real words and emotions, which would also explain why Bukowski gives me a real hard on as well, and why books and music are my reality, and I wander through this one like a stoned, vacant zombie most of the time.  When I begin to drown, I read Palahnuik.

I am searching desperately for that true happiness he speaks of.  I have cut myself open so many times, even to the point of evisceration, and I’m surprised I have any blood left to spill.  My life is a constant existential sequence of events at which the trend of all future the events in my life, are determined.  I am small and insignificant, and yet I’ve come to realize – a little late in life, granted – that I can create and destroy worlds and illusions simply by typing on my MacBook.  So why the fuck am I sitting here in a fit of despair over having a disagreement with my husband?  Grab the fucking knife, run it through, and bleed all over the keyboard, Nance.  You know it isn’t going to kill you.

There is this saying that happiness is a choice.  If that is not the biggest load of horse shit, then I don’t know what is.  It’s another way of saying “I’m not going to let anything bother me, I’m just going to be happy.”  Fuck you and your delusion.  You’re not happy, but you keep telling yourself you are, believing that if you keep telling yourself that, you’ll one day believe it.  Wake the fuck up.  There is a huge difference between not letting things bother you, and happiness.  Happiness is a struggle.  Don’t confuse it with the things in life that make you happy.  We all have those, and by all means, embrace and enjoy those moments.  We need to.  But having these awesome moments doesn’t mean that we are happy.  And as someone who is depressed, because my body can’t seem to figure out how seratonin and noradrenaline work, when someone tells me happiness is a choice, I want to punch them in their fucking face.

I though I was writing a dark, mob romance, and then it dawned on me that I’m not writing a romance at all.  I am writing about a relationship.  There isn’t exactly a genre for that.


I’m writing about something raw, and gritty, and something that truly scares the hell out of people.  Sometimes, I get so pulled in I have to snap my laptop closed and walk away for awhile.  I pull it from my own experiences and observations.  I’m not an expert by any means, hell, I can’t relate to most people.  But maybe that’s where I’m coming from when I’m trying to get my protagonist and her love interest to relate to one another, and you know what, maybe I’ll learn something from them.


Cut.  Bleed.  Repeat.  I’m bound to bleed to death before I figure it all out, and I’m actually okay with that.  It’ll be one hell of a ride.


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