Before I begin to tell my tale, I want you to know that everything turns out fine.

But I went through hell earlier because I thought I had lost my keys again. And in a sense I did, it’s just that this time, they were found.

It all happened when I got home from school today. I had the afternoon off today (more on that later), and so I got home around 1:15 pm. And it’s a good thing, too^[1]! Because it was not until I got home and went to use the electronic fob which should have been dangling next to my apartment key on a lanyard around my neck. But they weren’t there.

Immediately, I feel a sensation like someone had thrown a glass of ice cold water into my soul. But I told myself, no need to panic, I probably just forgot to put them on this morning, right? And they will be sitting there on my desk in their usual spot right now!

Um, no. No such luck. And I just couldn’t handle that. So I fucked around on the computer for a while, trying to figure out how the hell I had managed to do it this time when I had been keeping the fucking things on a cord around my neck. ^[2] Eventually, I took advantage of an “eye of the storm” moment in my panic attack, when the anxiety has temporarily worn me out, to get some sleep.

Woke up an hour later, all refreshed and ready for another round of freaking the fuck out, and decided I needed to tell someone about my plight. So I told Joe and Julian, and they were nice enough to look all around my room and the living room for me. But no dice.

So I went back to sleep. For once, my tendency to escape reality via sleep actually served a function. Namely, it kept my panic, depression, shame, confusion, and general reality strain from combining into a roiling miasma of psychological misery centered on my dumbass self.

And when I woke up, I found a note on my keyboard that Steve, the sort of jack of all trades do-it guy for the Writing faculty, has found my keys. My relief was enormous. I will pick them up at school tomorrow and this sad debacle will end and I can get on with my life and whatever I am going to fuck up next.

I try so hard to get my shit together, but I end up messing up anyhow. I blame my weak connection to reality and my environment. A lot of the circuits that should me keeping me organized and together have been hijacked for more internal purposes and I just don’t have enough room left in my consciousness to keep track for all the things I should be keeping track of… like my freaking keys.

Sometimes I feel like I am destined to make every mistake in the world.

Sometimes I feel like the only way I am going to survive is to get enough money to hire a reality assistant who can keep track of things for me so I can concentrate on being brilliant.

Sometimes I feel like being brilliant ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

The whole thing has left me feeling kind of shaken up. It’s great that I will not have to pay another $50 for yet another new fob – honestly, at this point, I kind of want to hug Steve. But the fact that shit like this just keeps happening to me has me rattled.

Because subjectively speaking, my reality isn’t very reliable. It’s like things appear and disappear at random. Not literally, of course. But from my working memory. All these deep thought and brilliant mentations of mine can take over all my working memory slots at any point, and I am left trying to deduce the things I have lost track of.

It’s a spooky and very trying way to live.

This morning’s class was Film Theory. We mostly talked about realistic versus formalistic (weird term for it) film-making. Pretty basic stuff. I was very interested in the examination of that scene in Goodfellas where Henry, the main character, pistol whips that motherfucker that got all handsy with his…. cousin, I think?

It was an example of realism, and what an example. Everything about that scene makes it feel real. The deep suburban sound design, the long takes, the humanistic camera angles that make you feel like you are standing right there watching, the incredibly average suburban neighborhood… all to provide contrast to Henry’s act of direct and savage violence. No cool lines, no attempt at intimidation, and no motherfucking sudden ninja powers. Just Henry beating the piece of shit’s face in with the butt of a pistol.

And then, to top it off, the realism of him having to give her the gun and tell her to hide it. And he looks really worried when he does it, too. In an action movie, his sheer cockitude would mean that because he had dominated with a display of violence, the cinematic universe of the move would be too scared to punish him for it.

Instead, despite the fact that he had just done something amazingly badass in a totally badass manner, the next shot, he’s nervous and scared as he hands her the gun.

Shows why Scorcese is one of the Great American Directors.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.