Archive for May, 2011

Depressalin: Chapter One “Displacement”

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on May 24, 2011 by synabetic

And here’s One, for what it’s worth. Once again, I feel it can be exapnded… but here you go. I also need to figure out to tranfser the spacing better. Goddamn… it’s barely readable for fuck’s sake.



I don’t like this place at all. It makes me wonder what I’m here for. — [:SITD:] “Displaced

“You don’t seem very depressed,” said the rather fetching woman across from me at the club. She was around forty and looked very fit and pretty. Someone I should be into. Someone I could take home. Someone I could love, if for just a little while.

“Oh, I am,” I replied over the thumping music, “I am. I just have this vodka here making me feel a little bit better. It’s all really artificial, you know, ‘cause I don’t really give a fuck about anything anymore—not even myself. Except for my kids, of course. And even then I wonder about that. I don’t know what the fuck is going on in my head any more than I know about panda repopulation.”

“What? You said something about vodka?”

Thanks, loud music and booze. Probably better that way. My voice is really low, anyway, and if I don’t make it carry I just sound like this rumbling thing spouting off a few discernable words here and there, like “vodka” and “fuck”.

“Well, y’know, Steve,” she continued, “I like you. You’re a good guy with a lot going for you. You should totally Facebook me… you got my name, right?”

Facebook? Seriously? This chick is around five years older than me and drops the social networking card right off the bat? Where the fuck have I been this last decade?

Oh, right: Married. And the only thing I really used social networking for was comics or writing industry stuff and a journal only my friends could read.

“I feel it’s better we go back to your place so I can fuck away all the memories I have of me and my wife.”


“I said, that’d be great! I’ll drop you a message once we’ve friended each other and maybe we can get together for some tea or something!”

“That’d be great, Steve! You know, I really do already like you. I look forward to hearing from you.” And then she kissed me on the cheek, yelled something like “Thanks for the drinks!” and then she rejoined her friends.

Another thirty minutes of my life. Fucking. Wasted.

Maybe not. I mean, she was obviously into me and all that crap, but I just wasn’t feeling it. No, ever since about a month before when the woman I loved more than anything told me to get out and that she had stopped loving me, I’d been a little dead inside.

Okay, a lot dead inside.

Okay, okay: I took Inside out to a forest, made it dig its own grave in the frozen earth with its bare hands, warming itself only with its sobbing tears, shot it thirty-seven times in the balls and head, and then I dropped it into the hole and pissed on what was left of it.

Then I called its family and told them I was coming for them next.

One thing was for sure… I made it a personal military objective to get wasted myself that night.

When Charon left me I was instantly destroyed. And unlike past relationships, I couldn’t just drink and fuck her away. I couldn’t move to somewhere else and cease communications. No, we have kids together. Two beautiful little boys. I was there for their births, cut their cords, told their mother how much I loved her and would never stop loving her—you know, the usual horseshit. But I meant every fucking word, every feeling, every motion. I loved her more than life itself… and when she said she wanted me to go and move on, when she said so insincerely she just wanted to be friends… that love became a living hell. It was a hell there was no escape from. It was a hell that gnawed from the inside of my ribcage like a hungry beast desperately trying to free itself from its own personal hell. It was… It was worse even than Detroit, what can I say?

The real painful part was knowing just how transparently sadistic Charon was being. She made it seem like this was something we both really, really felt to our very cores; that we needed it. I had no idea what her motives were on an intellectual level, but I knew in my gut what she was doing. She was setting up her own motorcycle built from dead baby hearts so she could skin Steve McQueen, wear him like a clown suit and jump that bike over the fence to freedom. And goddamn, did it ever work. Pure, sick genius borne of a girl who was always mocked for being stupid and a spaz by her peers growing up and had made it her life goal to leave them all in the dust, choking on her success. After that she took Husband Number One out for a quick spin and tossed him like a ninja disposing the body of some drunken prom queen in a dumpster. Point is: I, as Husband Number Two, should have expected it. I should have known. My nearly insane love for my own intelligence and wit doomed me from the first second of everything. I was immolated by my own arrogance. Crippled permanently by my own conceit.

Jesus fucking Christ, catharsis hurts like a million suns imploding in my ass.

I suppose that’s the genius thing about being a writer. Even when life crams this hideous, evil shit sandwich down my pie-hole, I can write about it and maybe even intrigue and entertain others with the tales of my bitter triumphs and glorious follies. My life has always been about one or the other, with very little in between. I’m either doing great and stressing about it, or I’m on my face in a puddle of my own puke and enjoying every second of it.

This is where what I call “depressalin” comes in. It’s a mix of severe depression and a burst of adrenaline. All of it, all at once. Awake and asleep, hungry and full, I always have depressalin coursing through my veins. My brain is a bio-chemical power plant run and maintained by mad train engineers whose favourite pastime is playing canasta with rabid marmots.

Sometimes my depressalin levels are compounded and exponentially increased by incredible amounts of alcohol. And by “sometimes” I mean “often”. Especially now that I’ve been thrust out into the world; a strange cave fish being tossed into a photography class and being told to be the top of its class. You see, when Charon and I were together, I was a “house husband”. This meant I stayed home with the kids. And so for almost seven years I did just that. Stayed at home and raised the boys while she worked an involving corporate job. Then, about two years ago, we moved from Seattle to Victoria, British Columbia, in Canada. This meant I was in a new place, knew no one here, and if things in the relationship went south, then I was supremely fucked.

That’s exactly what happened, too. Things went south, waaaay south. And my relationship with Charon swiftly fell apart. Those little things that annoyed us back in the States were exacerbated here in the city of Newly Weds and Nearly Deads. It took just over two years, but Charon finally said “fuck it”. And to be honest, she said “fuck it” almost a year before the divorce; so, really, it only took one motherfucking year for things to go to shit. It didn’t help that the vicious harpy she calls a mother got sick and her parents moved in with us. It also didn’t help that Charon’s job, one that was supposed to be better once she was here, fucked her left, right and center. Then there was the stress of the kids, with our older boy being autistic; and even the stress of her cocker spaniel, which woke up all hours of the night to bark and piss everywhere and had more mental issues than even the most fucked up reality show star. I didn’t help things either, as I was working on a writing career, mainly focusing on comic books, and I was depressed and moody.

Our sex life was the first tragic causality. While I’m not the most perverted lad on the planet, being rather vanilla and non-experimental, I started to get frustrated. Charon was never one for doing anything more than three positions; her favourite being me on top and just grinding her. Boring if you’re a guy, honestly. No talking, no real noises, just her with her eyes closed, deep in concentration and pleasure.

It was pretty creepy, now that I think on it.

Anyways, even though sex was nothing all that awesome, I still missed it when we weren’t doing it towards the end of things. I really liked her boobs, too…

I digress. Point is our sex life seriously nose-dived. We’re talking Stuka bombing runs by a drunken cyborg from the future here. In the last year or so of our relationship, Sharon and I had sex twice and she said right afterwards during Time One that she just wasn’t into it and that I was “pretty lame, honestly”.

I know what you’re thinking: “And her dumping you was a BAD thing?”

We’d never been all that intimate. She’s not a kisser, really, and hates holding hands. This made it really hard for me to gauge where she was at emotionally… not like I could ask her, as she felt talking about a relationship always led to bad things. As you might expect, I would eventually I would get frustrated and lash out at her verbally.

I can be a real dick.

No, really. When I say “lashed out at her verbally”, I mean I opened up the floodgates of Pure Asshole Steve, annihilating her and countless civilisations.

Around May of the previous year she told me on her way to drop me off at the comic shops to Free Comic Book Day that she didn’t think she was in love with me anymore. I was immediately devastated, and a little deserving since I was badgering her about how I suspected she was seeing someone else. Later I would discover my gut instincts were very correct, but  at the time I didn’t know if I really believed that had happened and I basically felt, in some fucked up way, that I could just get her to open up. And open up she did, and until December I did everything in my power to try to make her happy—except curb my occasional dickishness.

I could never stop being a dick, you see.

It’s most likely because I knew deep down our relationship was over. I was merely helping things along, making everything crumble faster and faster and faster until you could have built a particle accelerator out of what I had achieved.

I felt the name “Charon” would be an excellent replacement for her real name, by the way. I can’t be going around writing a book about my life and have real names, right? I’m a writer, not Uncle Scrooge’s building-sized bank vault.

The name is fitting. She’s the boatman who ferried me to the life after my Life. Thanks, honey.

I do feel a lot better and less dickish after cutting gluten out of my diet, though. I’ve been celiac for years—who knew?



Depressalin: Chapter Zero “Paragon of Shit”

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on May 24, 2011 by synabetic

Right, let’s start here. What you are about to read is what I call “Zero”, which is the “intro” to Depresslin: Bitter Notes and Saving Throes from a Charming Thirty-Nothing— or, more accurately, my ego-mania turned into a book about my life. And shit. Please keep in mind: it’s not final. I’m sure I’ll edit things and add to it and stuff. In the meantime… enjoy.




You say I’m not good for you and I am poison for your soul… I would rather run, but I cannot hide from myself. — Painbastard “Poison for Your Soul

Brief Insight:

“Is the glass half empty or half full, Steve?”

Fuck the glass. Fuck you. Fuck the fucking world in its fucking eyes.”

Charon is a brutal whore. How’s that for an opener? A fucking brutal whore who destroyed a life that I shouldn’t have built anyway. But here I am, with what’s left of a life in tow… just trying to scrape by and clinging on to what scraps I have left. It could be worse. Oh, boy howdy, could it ever! At least I can write about it. You know, tell YOU, dear reader, all about it. Maybe you’ll laugh. Maybe you’ll cry. Maybe you simply won’t give a shit. One thing will be made clear, though. Ready?

Never cross a writer.

And there you go, folks. Words of wisdom if there were any to be had in this gaping maw of an asshole we call living. Still, to be fair, this won’t be ALL about Charon. My whole existence encompasses more than her, or even our lovely offspring. No, there’s much, much more to be had.

I would love to tell you that I haven’t always been bitter, jaded, cynical, and an all-around sardonic treat of a person. However, as the truth would have it, I’ve been this way my whole fucking life. I’m not always this perfect paragon of pessimism and bleakery, of course. I cover it with charm, humour, fun, astute observations and lots of witty comments. The short of it is that I hate my life, always have, always will, but I’ll never kill myself because, well, I’m an atheist and I know this is all I got.

When I was a kid, I was crushed when I discovered there was no Santa Claus. To this very day I still hold it against my parents. But a god? Nope. Never once believed in any of that puerile nonsense. Certainly not after finding out Santa was a load of bullshit. Man, I can still remember being on that NATO base in West Germany watching my dad and his Air Force buddies track Mr. Claus on radar. That shit was real. REAL, I tell you. Losing Santa was one of the telling moments of my childhood and that’s about where I had enough shit from motherfuckers.

“To hell with this crap!” I screamed.

I was eight.

Now I’m thirty-five, divorced, have two kids and am stuck in Canada. There are worse places to be stuck, yeah, but not many which are more expensive. I’ll bitch about Canada later, don’t you worry.

Where to start this thing? You’re holding a book in your hands or reading it on a computer or something and I should, at the very least, get right to the entertainment. I need to be your dancing fool so you can justify reading all this stuff. Perhaps you even paid for it—even better. You’re going to need all kinds of background anecdotes and stupid jokes to prepare you for the dreadful, cheerless entity that is my ex-wife, how I met her and ended up with her for almost seven years.

Hey, you want me to sum up my personality with a quick story?

Too bad. I’m gonna tell you, anyway.

Long ago, I went to the theatre with friends to see the movie se7en, having no idea what to expect. This was in the days before the internet exploded like a donkey full of nuclear bombs and we didn’t know anything about upcoming movies, save for seeing previews in theatres, watching Siskel & Ebert or actually listening to that one near-psychotic movie geek we knew at work. If you do not know about the movie I speak of, by the way, go look it up. I don’t have the want or time to explain it to you, other than it’s a nasty, dark movie involving a serial killer using the Seven Deadly Sins as his trademark. Getting back to being there and watching the film, I laughed out loud through most of it. I knew it wasn’t supposed to be a comedy, but I was most impressed seeing a “bigger movie” with those kinds of motifs, that kind of plot and brilliant bleak characters living equally bleak lives. It was awesome. As my friends and I were leaving the theatre, an older lady took the time to point out to me that I was a “sick fucker” and should “be put down for the good of society”. Naturally, I thanked her for her insights and wished her a pleasant evening having intercourse with small animals.

One friend with us was particularly disturbed by se7en. I made a mental note of that and, sure enough, I was talking to his girlfriend some time later and she told me that she was having a special movie night with him. She already had Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein but needed another video tape to make it just right. I told her straight away that se7en was one of his fave films and she should get to the video store post haste. Later on that day he showed up and they watched Frankenstein, which he enjoyed, and then she popped in se7en. Apparently he freaked out so bad he jumped over the couch, bolted for his girlfriend’s front door and didn’t talk to her for over a week. Their relationship ended poorly shortly after that.

Ian didn’t talk to me for over two years.

But when he did talk to me again, finally, I did my best to smooth things over. Yes, I was dick for doing what I did. Yes, I was the asshole. Yes, I took advantage of his hyper-sensitive, highly neurotic goth-boy nature. What does it prove? I don’t know, really, but it makes a great little story.

It gives you an idea about who I am. What I am.

Let’s light this fucker up, kids.


Wow, I really like to be dramatic, eh? Hah! If I can’t laugh at myself, who the fuck CAN I laugh at?

Hey there…

Posted in Uncategorized on May 24, 2011 by synabetic

Look at this. I’m doing a blog. It’s been awhile since I posted anything in blog form outside of blatantly shilling something I’m working on, or for some company I’m working for or whatever… so here I am.

What is Depressalin, exactly? Well, it’s the book I’m working on about my tragically funny life. It’s been a work in progress for a long time now, since the end of 2009 when my marriage ended rather abruptly. I’ve groveled and pleaded with the writing gods to give me some kind of material to play with– something that meant something, you know? And my prayers were answered in the form of probably the most devastating, self-destroying event my life had ever encountered. Naturally, writing about such things takes time and as said time passes, new things always pop up. And I write them down.

So, what to do? Initially, I thought I would release bits of this so-called book in blog format for people to read and enjoy or, more probably, wonder why this Steve-guy is writing shit that they can only describe as “it’s better than doing shit at work, so I might as well read it, right?”.  Anyway, it occurred to me recently (five minutes ago) that I should do that AND just blog about… stuff.

Maybe you’ll like it. I suppose I can be entertaining from time to time. I suppose you have nothing better to do at work. Or at the donkey show. Or whatever.

Buckle up and settle in. I’m gonna tell you things.