Announcing Typecast, a new webseries I’m co-developing with Mac Beauvais (strangelikethat).
Typecast is a comedy-drama following three LA-based actors all in different stages of their careers, all looking at where they are, where they’re heading, where they want to be… and what they’ll do to get there.
We have exceptionally lofty ambitions for the show, and we’ll be sharing a little more with you as we creep into the summer. In the meantime you can follow the show on these social networks:
Depression is humiliating. It turns intelligent, kind people into zombies who can’t wash a dish or change their socks. It affects the ability to think clearly, to feel anything, to ascribe value to your children, your lifelong passions, your relative good fortune. It scoops out your normal healthy ability to cope with bad days and bad news, and replaces it with an unrecognizable sludge that finds no pleasure, no delight, no point in anything outside of bed. You alienate your friends because you can’t comport yourself socially, you risk your job because you can’t concentrate, you live in moderate squalor because you have no energy to stand up, let alone take out the garbage. You become pathetic and you know it. And you have no capacity to stop the downward plunge. You have no perspective, no emotional reserves, no faith that it will get better. So you feel guilty and ashamed of your inability to deal with life like a regular human, which exacerbates the depression and the isolation.
Depression is humiliating.
If you’ve never been depressed, thank your lucky stars and back off the folks who take a pill so they can make eye contact with the grocery store cashier. No one on earth would choose the nightmare of depression over an averagely turbulent normal life.
It’s not an incapacity to cope with day to day living in the modern world. It’s an incapacity to function. At all. If you and your loved ones have been spared, every blessing to you. If depression has taken root in you or your loved ones, every blessing to you, too.
Depression is humiliating.
No one chooses it. No one deserves it. It runs in families, it ruins families. You cannot imagine what it takes to feign normalcy, to show up to work, to make a dentist appointment, to pay bills, to walk your dog, to return library books on time, to keep enough toilet paper on hand, when you are exerting most of your capacity on trying not to kill yourself. Depression is real. Just because you’ve never had it doesn’t make it imaginary. Compassion is also real. And a depressed person may cling desperately to it until they are out of the woods and they may remember your compassion for the rest of their lives as a force greater than their depression. Have a heart. Judge not lest ye be judged.
Schuck! Schuck! The shovel struck the dirt, slowly baring the wooden face of the coffin. High above, the Moon shone, full and bright, with few clouds darkening the landscape. She stopped for a moment, to wipe sweat from Her brow, and just as She started to swing the shovel again, She heard a rustling in the nearby bushes. “What the…?” Her hair swung loosely as she turned, having escaped, again, the kerchief that tried in vain to hold it. Squinting, as She peered around her, She sniffed, thinking that She had picked up a vaguely familiar scent. Nothing happened after a few minutes, so She turned back to the task at hand. Clouds had obscured the Moon, so She had to take more care, lest She hit Her own leg.
Suddenly, bursting from the brush at the same time that the Moon escaped it’s latest confinement behind the clouds, a large, hairy, brutish figure loped toward Her. A gasp escaped Her as She whirled toward the movement. Before She could raise the shovel, the massive intruder collided with Her, knocking Her to the ground. Startled, She swung the shovel. The other figure knocked it aside, effortlessly. Then, just before She could scream, the Wolf started licking her. Her laughter could be heard echoing across the graveyard. She squirmed, and giggled, trying to avoid the slobbering beast. The Wolf stopped, and howled, then changed. “YOU!” She exclaimed. “I should have known!” Laughing, Her sister launched herself at Her again. “Gotcha!”
Submitted respectfully, I hope you enjoyed my poor attempt.
Now combine all of those, add more dramatic flourishes with your hands, and perform them to something mournful in 3/4 time (waltz time), and you will have how the StuntHusband and I dance. Also, we (unintentionally!) mirror each other’s movements all the time, but that’s because we’ve been going to clubs together for over 20 years now.
now you know the secret of my dance.
God I miss Goth clubs…
Oh god, this is so accurate it hurts. GEEKGIRLSMASH, you will love this!!
THIS IS THE BEST THING!!!!
Also, the extent of my dancing abilities…
Aw, I miss goth clubs.
Kris and I actually did this kind of “class” for people. The dance we did was: Pick up the rose. Smell the rose. Offer the rose. Drop the rose. Scoop up the rose. If we’re at a club, and one of us says “Smell the rose” and we both go into the routine.