On a day like today, as I try to recover from yet another night of binge drinking and romantic humiliation, I tend to teeter between self-loathing and misanthropy. One minute I'll think, "Well, of course my love life is a shambles; everyone on earth is dreadful. How am I supposed to find my Beatrice when I am a Benedick stuck in a world full of insipid Heroes and Claudios?" And then the next minute I'll think, "Well, of course my love life is a shambles. Look at me: I'm an ambitionless office drone with controversial hair and soft obliques and a fairly serious case of logorrhea. How am I supposed to find my Beatrice when . . . oh, I don't know . . . when I'm a Dante stuck in a hell of my own devising? And that's another thing: my allusions lack coherence."
Honestly. I have to make some changes. I mean, for heaven's sake, in just eight days I will be 27 years old. Twenty-seven. That's just three years away from thirty. One score and ten. Almost halfway to my no-doubt ignominious death in some seedy brothel where I'll suffer a fatal coronary in the cold embrace of some syphilitic hustler who will rob my corpse of any valuables the second I expire but won't have the courtesy to close my saggy, veiny eyelids, and that's how they'll find me: naked, bloated, wide-eyed.
Poor little me.
My short review of Actors Revolution Theatre's production of Richard II is in the current issue of the Chicago Reader.