My Manic Mind

It’s 3:38 a.m. 3:38 a.m. 3:38 a.m.  I watch the clock and repeat what the fuck – what the fuck – what the fuck.  I just want to sleep, to rest, to lie beside my husband and find some peace.  Instead, my mind is restless and racing and the thoughts are neither logical nor productive, but they just keep coming, and coming, and coming – and I can’t stop them like trying to dodge bullets on some neon light video game screen. 3:39 a.m. and the concern that is currently keeping me awake is the fate of Tracy Morgan – Tracy fucking Morgan.  This is what is happening in my head:

Shit. Tracy Morgan was really fucking type-cast on 30 Rock.  Tracy Jordan; we all know he was basically playing himself.  And now the show is over, and what is that poor suffering bastard supposed to do with himself? What will he do? What will he do?  Well, I sure hope he made a shit ton of money from that Mio add that they first ran during the Super Bowl.  That ad wasn’t even funny, but he’s going to need some back-up bank.  And what the hell happened to 30 Rock? My beloved 30 Rock. What happened to that show?  It was so funny, so damn funny and so damn good.  Remember when she got that cat, Emily Dickinson, and she could fit Emily Dickinson inside of her mouth and that made everything okay or when we learned Jack’s very important advice of “never follow a hippie to a second location” when Princess Lea, whatever the fuck her name is, she’s fat now, oh yes Carrie Fisher, was on the show.  Oh yes. Oh yes. The good old Liz Lemon.  And this last season just sucked, sucked so miserably that it makes me down right mad.  Do you think there might have been a point to it all? Oh, yes, she was finally in a real, committed relationship and that’s when we lost good old Liz Lemon, so that’s her point – this is Tina Fey’s point, relationships kill creativity and personality.  They are bad for you, and they make everything suck.  Maybe. Maybe. She knew she wouldn’t have been with him – fucking hot dog vendor, c’mon.  Of course Jack didn’t approve, or maybe, maybe, as a way of letting TGS and 30 Rock end this was Tina Fey sending a cue to Lorne Michaels that it’s time to give up the ghost and let SNL go too because Lord knows that show has sucked ass for years and years and years.  Maybe she was mad at Jason Sudeikis. What, Angela, what? That doesn’t even make any sense. That makes no sense. No, why would she be mad at Jason Sudeikis? He’s funny, and likeable.  Olivia Wilde likes him and people think she’s hot.  Now, wait, here’s the greater concern. This is the part you think is crazy, this is the crazy part now, but worrying about the future acting career of Tracy Morgan is a perfectly normal thing to do at 3:40 a.m. Oh, fuck you brain. Shut off. Shut off. Shut off. Now you’re arguing with yourself.  Let’s just move on, okay. Okay. Jason Sudeikis is fine. Tina Fey is fine. You are not fine.  Your thoughts won’t stop. Make them stop.  How will you describe this feeling to others? Try to capture this moment of mania? Help them see how infuriating and frustrating it is. Oh, yes.  It’s like Carrie Underwood’s dress at the Grammys. Carrie Underwood’s dress at the Grammys this year when they were showing all those images on the canvas and then there was a butterfly and it erupted into a million other butterflies – all just images and they went racing across her dress and the screen. My thoughts are like those butterflies.  They’re floating everywhere and they can’t be caught or held onto, and I don’t know which butterflies to follow or chase.  Oh, what the fuck, Angela? C’mon now.  You can’t use Carrie Underwood’s dress at the 2013 Grammys as a metaphor for your mania.  That’s stupid.  That’s not a lasting pop culture reference.  It’s like that time when you made an allusion to Amy Lee and Evanescence lyrics and how you felt left alone and like you had lost yourself after your first marriage. Fucking Evanescence. You always hated them anyway. And Creed. Oh awful Creed. What’s this life for? Not groceries. No, not groceries.  And so it goes, so it goes. So it goes.

Ah, Kurt Vonnegut … and then my mind goes running in a new direction, but I remain restless and agitated, and in desperate need of rest and peace. Rest and peace.