OMFG STRESS
School started on Monday. Is overwhelming. Doing lots of homework, did a lab, studying, test prep, was going to take a test today but the testing center was closed. Work in a few minutes, corporate is visiting right now, working 44 hours this week, want to die. numb3rswriteoff due Friday, numb3rsficathon due... sometime. Fics for eppescest due whenever I can get around to them OMFG. Toooo much. Supposed to fly down to Miami in less than two weeks for the weekend. Will need the mini-vacation, but God knows that weekend is going to end up being stressful.
Here's the next part of my Aaron Sorkin/Kristin Chenoweth fic:
If he ever took a chemical again, Aaron knows it would be like this. At first, he’s just talking to her, talking about going together to the Emmys, congratulating her on her nomination, and it’s all innocent, and he thinks that maybe he’s got control, can take her just once, see her again once, but he’s spent enough time in those rooms where the coffee flows to know that once is too much and a thousand isn’t enough, and this - Miss Kristin Chenoweth - is another example of that because as soon as he sees her in that dress, he’s already making deals. The bargaining comes after denial and disbelief, and disbelief was what he felt when he heard her voice on the other end of the telephone. Why would she be calling me after all that I’ve done? It’s that typical self-sabotaging shit - I want you, I can’t have you, I’ll work my feelings out in a script as I massacre your name, you’ll never want me again, and that makes it easier for me to move on - but Kristin’s always been the girl with the pure heart, and for all he knows, she was flattered by Harriet Hayes. Maybe when you’re the kind of egotistical asshole he is, other people take any kind of reference as flattery. Or maybe it’s just being an egotistical asshole that makes him think that. Aaron’s never really been able to wrap his head around that Christ-following, unconditional love thing Kristin’s got going on. He can write like he gets it, but putting it into practice the way she seems to do so effortlessly is another thing completely.
He sees her in that dress, and he’s already making deals. Not to sound like a woman - God forbid - but he’s trying to picture a wedding. The thought doesn’t just come to him; he puts it there and feeds it, like the way cravings for crack don’t just jump up on him out of nowhere but are cultivated, some sort of sick need he still has to feel like a tortured artist when, really, that tortured artist shtick never fit him. He was too smart for it, too well-groomed, too easy to like.
He’s trying to picture a wedding with a priest and a rabbi at the front of a cathedral. Never mind that he’s only Jewish by blood; never mind that she’s not Catholic. It’s all about the postcard and wallet-sized photographs to tuck in pockets, pocketed memories. And why is he thinking about this? Why is it that all it took was one phone call, and he’s tumbling over himself in his head trying to come up with the next step? Whatever happened to One Day at a Time?
He thinks of his sponsor telling him to live in the moment, but even after all this time, it’s difficult to stay in the moment when that moment is only standing in front of a mirror and buttoning up his shirt, putting on a tie, splashing on a bit of cologne. Experience tells him that even when the world is still, his mind should be going at hundred miles an hour, experience that existed long before the years of sobriety.
Despite that question in the beginning of the Narcotics Anonymous book - could it be the drugs? - the reality that all the recovering addicts know is that there’s a problem with me. Aaron has this addiction that manifests itself in many forms - there were crack-cocaine benders and promiscuous behavior, penthouse apartments and fancy things, vain attempts to fill the hungry, nagging, needful void that says, “If you do this, everything will be okay” - and one of those many forms has been Kristin.
Kristin’s got this effect on him that isn’t unlike amphetamine. She’s a tiny blonde with big tits, the American fantasy. She’s got powerhouse vocals, appealing to the rockstar obsession that lives within every man (and the subsequent desire to live vicariously through Jimmy Page or Jimmy Hendrix or even the homofest that is a Kristin Chenoweth album because it’s an adaptive trait man learned long ago - that if he can’t trade something for sex, he can woo women with a song and/or poetry… and maybe that’s why Aaron became a writer… to woo women like Kristin). She’s bubbly and bright and perky. The bitch is happy. And in a society crippled by white entitlement and a snobbish demand for more for cheap, it’s, like, super-rare to find peace and joy in someone. Kristin’s hot and highly-talented and happy, and she awakens in Aaron all those desires he’s held for himself - to be attractive to others, to be of intellectual and entertainment value to others, to have those things of want to others, everything defined by them, everything about what others want and see and believe, gotta do more, gotta be more, this sick idea that if a hair-plugged, tanned, fifty-year-old man dies of a stress-induced heart attack after working ninety hours a week for thirty years, he’s a hero to his family, a symbol of pride, a man’s man, the American model. What the fuck?
Kristin’s like an amphetamine because she’s got all those little attributes marked on the theoretical checklist of who he’d like to fuck, sleep with, live with, marry, procreate with. She’s got all those little checkboxes filled, and that’s a thrilling thing, a thing that makes his heart race and skip beats and soar to new heights where he wants to do more and be more so that he’ll be pleasing to her, so that he’ll be the guy with all the filled boxes on her checklist, so that she’ll never leave him. He could stay up for days writing with her in his life because she’s got that drugging effect. A little smile, that little giggle, those big eyes, and he’s smiling back and heading back to his office to punch out the next script.
Here's the next part of my Aaron Sorkin/Kristin Chenoweth fic:
If he ever took a chemical again, Aaron knows it would be like this. At first, he’s just talking to her, talking about going together to the Emmys, congratulating her on her nomination, and it’s all innocent, and he thinks that maybe he’s got control, can take her just once, see her again once, but he’s spent enough time in those rooms where the coffee flows to know that once is too much and a thousand isn’t enough, and this - Miss Kristin Chenoweth - is another example of that because as soon as he sees her in that dress, he’s already making deals. The bargaining comes after denial and disbelief, and disbelief was what he felt when he heard her voice on the other end of the telephone. Why would she be calling me after all that I’ve done? It’s that typical self-sabotaging shit - I want you, I can’t have you, I’ll work my feelings out in a script as I massacre your name, you’ll never want me again, and that makes it easier for me to move on - but Kristin’s always been the girl with the pure heart, and for all he knows, she was flattered by Harriet Hayes. Maybe when you’re the kind of egotistical asshole he is, other people take any kind of reference as flattery. Or maybe it’s just being an egotistical asshole that makes him think that. Aaron’s never really been able to wrap his head around that Christ-following, unconditional love thing Kristin’s got going on. He can write like he gets it, but putting it into practice the way she seems to do so effortlessly is another thing completely.
He sees her in that dress, and he’s already making deals. Not to sound like a woman - God forbid - but he’s trying to picture a wedding. The thought doesn’t just come to him; he puts it there and feeds it, like the way cravings for crack don’t just jump up on him out of nowhere but are cultivated, some sort of sick need he still has to feel like a tortured artist when, really, that tortured artist shtick never fit him. He was too smart for it, too well-groomed, too easy to like.
He’s trying to picture a wedding with a priest and a rabbi at the front of a cathedral. Never mind that he’s only Jewish by blood; never mind that she’s not Catholic. It’s all about the postcard and wallet-sized photographs to tuck in pockets, pocketed memories. And why is he thinking about this? Why is it that all it took was one phone call, and he’s tumbling over himself in his head trying to come up with the next step? Whatever happened to One Day at a Time?
He thinks of his sponsor telling him to live in the moment, but even after all this time, it’s difficult to stay in the moment when that moment is only standing in front of a mirror and buttoning up his shirt, putting on a tie, splashing on a bit of cologne. Experience tells him that even when the world is still, his mind should be going at hundred miles an hour, experience that existed long before the years of sobriety.
Despite that question in the beginning of the Narcotics Anonymous book - could it be the drugs? - the reality that all the recovering addicts know is that there’s a problem with me. Aaron has this addiction that manifests itself in many forms - there were crack-cocaine benders and promiscuous behavior, penthouse apartments and fancy things, vain attempts to fill the hungry, nagging, needful void that says, “If you do this, everything will be okay” - and one of those many forms has been Kristin.
Kristin’s got this effect on him that isn’t unlike amphetamine. She’s a tiny blonde with big tits, the American fantasy. She’s got powerhouse vocals, appealing to the rockstar obsession that lives within every man (and the subsequent desire to live vicariously through Jimmy Page or Jimmy Hendrix or even the homofest that is a Kristin Chenoweth album because it’s an adaptive trait man learned long ago - that if he can’t trade something for sex, he can woo women with a song and/or poetry… and maybe that’s why Aaron became a writer… to woo women like Kristin). She’s bubbly and bright and perky. The bitch is happy. And in a society crippled by white entitlement and a snobbish demand for more for cheap, it’s, like, super-rare to find peace and joy in someone. Kristin’s hot and highly-talented and happy, and she awakens in Aaron all those desires he’s held for himself - to be attractive to others, to be of intellectual and entertainment value to others, to have those things of want to others, everything defined by them, everything about what others want and see and believe, gotta do more, gotta be more, this sick idea that if a hair-plugged, tanned, fifty-year-old man dies of a stress-induced heart attack after working ninety hours a week for thirty years, he’s a hero to his family, a symbol of pride, a man’s man, the American model. What the fuck?
Kristin’s like an amphetamine because she’s got all those little attributes marked on the theoretical checklist of who he’d like to fuck, sleep with, live with, marry, procreate with. She’s got all those little checkboxes filled, and that’s a thrilling thing, a thing that makes his heart race and skip beats and soar to new heights where he wants to do more and be more so that he’ll be pleasing to her, so that he’ll be the guy with all the filled boxes on her checklist, so that she’ll never leave him. He could stay up for days writing with her in his life because she’s got that drugging effect. A little smile, that little giggle, those big eyes, and he’s smiling back and heading back to his office to punch out the next script.