Somebody, shut off my brain.

My mind has been fucking with me lately. I’ve been bothered with all this shit floating around in this small brain of mine. I notice that my tics have been more severe than usual and that scares me, because I twitch and fidget all day just to tense up in bed when I finally collapse, hours after I get my ass off this couch; and worse than that, my little boy emulates my every move. It scares me to witness his little idiosyncrasies when he gets excited: the curling of his fingers, the tensing of his neck muscles, and his unintentional refusal to breathe when he gets overwhelmed with happiness. Am I abusing my child?

There are many things eating at me lately. Not only do I feel that I have no time to finish projects and goals I’ve set for myself, but I’ve been eating way too much ice cream (and nothing else). Also, as excited as I am about my wife being pregnant with another bundle of fulfillment, I’m worried about the expense and fatigue that come along with adding another being to our little family. And though I love art and music, my band has been working on the new Harley Poe album for about two years now and I’m just to the point where I don’t care how it turns out, I just want it finished; but even if we do finish it, then what? Though I have a great desire to tour, it’s just too hard to leave my babies behind; and since I’m not touring, I’d better find a career in a secure vocation that can support my family.

So here I am two years into becoming an elementary school teacher, knowing without a doubt that I’d much rather make a living as a writer or an artist or a musician of some kind. I realized yesterday through my IUK education class that my motives are all wrong for becoming a teacher. I think I’m supposed to be doing something else, but do I take a chance and go to art school? Do I drop out, get a retail job, and hope that I begin to sell more paintings or that some big wig randomly discovers my band and wants to give me lots of money for playing at the same bar every month? Is it more realistic to let my wife bring in the money while I change diapers and attempt to write a bestselling novel or picture book, or should I ignore these feelings, suck it up, jump into a career that might not bring fulfillment, and regret my decisions until I die?

Honestly, my intention for writing this post was not to vent about mundane issues (I'm just good at doing that), but to give praise to three films that never fail to fuck with my head. These movies are Rosemary’s Baby (1968), Open Water (2004), and Eden Lake (2008). For all different reasons, after viewing any of these three poignant works of art, I’m left with emotions that keep me from sleep and stress me out, just like the shit that’s been floating around in my small brain. Within my next three posts, I will discuss the reasons why I’m so affected by these three masterpieces.