Tag Archives: Macbeth

Depression, the Genie and Me

Robin Williams wasn’t my favorite actor.

I mean, if you asked me who my favorite actor is, I’d say Johnny Depp (yeah, yeah, whatever). If you asked me to name some actors I would always go to see a movie they’re in, I’d probably tell you Alfred Molina, Julia Stiles and John Goodman.

But when I heard about Williams’ suicide, I stopped to think of all the ways he influenced me. And he really did. I can’t remember a single movie I’ve watched with him in it that I didn’t enjoy. I grew up watching “Jumanji,” “Fern Gully,” “Aladdin” and its sequels. I constantly watched “Hook” and quoted lines from it, though I admittedly more often imitated Dustin Hoffman chewing the scenery as Captain James Hook. I remember getting in trouble for repeating a line from “Mrs. Doubtfire” as a child. (The line was, as Williams imitated Porky Pig, “Bedabba dabba dabba, p-p-p-piss off, Lou!”, not that I actually knew the words I was saying.) In high school, I was introduced to the beautiful film “What Dreams May Come,” an interpretation of Dante’s Inferno. In college, I discovered “Patch Adams,” “Night at the Museum” and “August Rush,” as well as two of my favorite films of all time, “Good Will Hunting” and “Dead Poets Society.” It’s movies like those, especially the Academy Award-winning performance Williams gave in “Good Will Hunting,” that remind me that comedians often have a great capacity for drama. Even my lesser loved comedians, like Jim Carrey and Adam Sandler, have stunned me with their dramatic performances. But Williams had the special gift of making me love him both as a comedian AND a dramatic actor.

Even beyond acting with a bodily presence, Williams influenced me most notably with his impressions. Were they always great, pitch perfect imitations of specific people, like his John Wayne performs Macbeth? Nah. Could I always tell if it was Williams? Yup. I was the only one in my family that could tell from voice alone that Williams was not the voice of Genie in “Return of Jafar.” Even so, Williams had a talent for impressions and voices. His gift was in the total and complete dedication to the bit, as well as being able to switch from one character to another faster than should be humanly possible. I’ve always enjoyed doing voices myself, and it was Williams and Mel Blanc, the voice of many beloved Warner Bros. cartoon characters, that helped guide me in that direction.

He wasn’t my favorite actor, but that might be because I had trouble thinking of him as an actor. I thought of him more as a friend to hang out with, the funny guy with all the voices that could make me laugh. But there’s no denying that he was definitely one of the people I would always enjoy watching on screen.

That’s probably one of the reasons Williams is the only celebrity whose death I’ve cried over. It’s weird, right? Crying over someone dying when you’ve never even met them? There have been people I HAVE known in real life to die I haven’t cried over. I suppose that could very well be a testament to how powerful Williams’ gift of connection and humor and emotion was.

But if I’m going to be honest, that’s not the only reason I cried. That might not even be the main reason I cried. No, if I’m honest with myself, I think it was because Williams was depressed and almost no one knew.

Depression is definitely one of those things people at large are largely ignorant about, myself included. Part of it has to do with the fact that we use the word as a synonym for being sad. That ASPCA commercial with the Sarah McLachlan song? So depressing. Got an F on a paper you worked all night on? Now you’re depressed. Except there’s a distinct difference between momentary sadness, no matter how deep those moments get, and systemic depression. Depression isn’t cured by a funny movie or a pint of ice cream or hanging out with friends. It isn’t something you can just “nut up” and “get over.” And the worst part about depression? Based on my personal experience and the stories I’ve heard from other depressed people, depression is seen as undesirable and shameful, so the person that has it tends to do their damnedest to hide it.

Have you ever noticed that there are a lot of creative types, and often comedic types, that are on drugs or are depressed? Many of whom end up dead? People like Philip Seymour Hoffman (drug addiction) and Chris Farley (drug addiction) and Heath Ledger (couldn’t pull out of his roles). But everyone knows drug and alcohol addiction are things to seek help over. They’re obviously bad things, right? They’re self-destructive behaviors that can ruin your life. But when it comes to depression, most people shrug off the entire idea. Even though I am willing to bet that a large chunk of addiction is born of depression and the desperate attempt to escape that soul-crushing feeling.

Cracked.com, the source of many a funny thing on the internet, has more than a few articles about depression and anxiety in funny people. Here’s one by David Wong, who talks about why people constantly cracking jokes are often depressed. And here’s another one by Mark Hill, about misconceptions of depression. Wong’s article has many, many links to many, many other writings by comedians about depression, but these are the two I’ve read. And they have some good points, many of which I agree with, based on personal experience.

Yeah, I’ve kinda sorta admitted that I might be depressed before. Yeah, I’ve talked about it before. But people don’t seem to be too receptive to the idea until they see depression’s effects laid out in front of them. Until the man that never stopped being hilarious and bringing joy to everyone killed himself because he felt life had crapped on him one too many times, finally with a Parkinson’s diagnosis, people by and large ignore the issue.

I suppose it’s not anyone’s fault. In America, mental health and awareness has taken a veritable nosedive with absolutely no changes no matter WHAT happens. We have mentally unstable people shooting and killing in double digit numbers and nothing changes with our mental health system because the conversation become bluster about guns and gun rights. We have veterans returning home with PTSD and mental health issues, becoming homeless and forgotten, and nothing changes with our mental health system because the conversation becomes bluster about war and the people still fighting. And we have an Oscar-winning actor, a beloved father and husband, an immensely successful comedian, an intensely well-liked celebrity (which seems rather hard to come by sometimes), a man known for his voice who chooses to die by strangling that voice until it no longer exists… and likely, nothing with change with our mental health system because we’d rather focus on other stuff, be it injustice in Ferguson painting some bigger, disturbing pictures of America or be it dumping ice water on our heads to raise money for ALS and/or whining about people dumping ice water on their heads. Because as uncomfortable as those things might be, depression may be even more uncomfortable.

Here’s my personal experiences. As a kid, I was bullied for all sorts of reasons. I was too smart. I was weird. I looked stupid. I had glasses. I had a dumb haircut. I wore a suit to picture day. This caused me to develop a temper. And I got into fights sometimes, too. Not often, and I never went home bruised and bloody, but that’s because what fights I did get in I either refused to do much other than run away or, in one case, won by dropping a kid on his head. I didn’t have friends, either. Not really. There weren’t really any kids my age in my neighborhood, and my parents weren’t too big on my hanging out with anyone. That could be blamed on their being used to my older sister’s anti-social nature, but who knows. My one early creative outlet, playing violin, was taken away because I “didn’t practice enough.” When I eventually discovered acting, I fell in love with it. I got to be SOMEONE ELSE. That amazing feeling of escapism brought me so much joy.

This sort of thing continued for quite a while. My temper was an issue all the way into high school, with my father and I twice coming to physical altercations during my junior year of high school, altercations that were ultimately just him with his hand around my throat. My mother would take his side and say I shouldn’t have goaded him. That loneliness was not a good feeling. By this point, I’d buried myself even further into acting. While at the Alabama School of Math and Science, I finally found groups of socially rejected people who were just as nerdy, intelligent and ridiculous as me. My grades slipped as I focused my time and attention on the social connections I had never been able to have before. Eventually, I failed out, losing those connections.

In college, the struggle continued, but I found small groups to accept me, groups like the Quizbowl Team. A nerdy bunch, to be sure. And there were people on that team that made my social ineptitude seem like I was the most desirable socialite on the market in comparison. Plus, I had tampered down my temper throughout my time at college, and I started to find a way to be acceptable: Talk. A lot. Make jokes. Be interesting. Grab their attention for just a moment. Maybe they’ll just groan and roll their eyes, maybe they’ll laugh, but at least they’ll know I’m there. And I found people that didn’t outright reject me for that.

But it isn’t perfect. I’m not terribly funny. I consider myself a member of the school of quantity: If you crack enough jokes, eventually a good one will slip through. And it’s only through the past year of my job as a trivia jockey that I’ve become even remotely comfortable working a crowd directly, as opposed to in theatre when you work the stage/scene/character and the entirety of the performance works the crowd. I have tried to get better, to be a more desirable person to be around, et cetera.

And yet, I find that I’m still too honest for some people. On Twitter and Facebook, I was fully willing to admit when I was feeling crappy/lonely/hurt. Because I’m still trying to remind myself about the difference between a friend and a friendly acquaintance. Twitter followers, blog readers, Facebook friends… they aren’t the same as real friends. But I haven’t really had too many “real friends” growing up. I have my one best friend that I can call on whenever, and I only met her during my fourth year of college in 2010. I had a regular group of buddies I’d go out with to play trivia and board games, but jobs and distance have broken us up. At this point in my life, even more so than in college (though it was true in college), I don’t really have a group of friends I can say I’m truly a part of. I don’t have people I feel I can call up and say, “Hey, let’s hang out.” Maybe that’s due to years of being told, by words or actions, that I wasn’t desirable to hang out with. Maybe that’s because I just don’t understand social cues and don’t realize I do have friends like that. I dunno. But friends like that? Those are not the same as people you share internet social media information with, apparently.

Take a semi-recent example. A girl messaged me on Facebook to tell me I’m cute. I respond because why the hell not, what do I have to lose? We talk for a few months. We hang out a few times. She’s into me, I’m into her. All seems pretty great. Then, without any warning given to me, without any conversation about problems, she tells me we should stop hanging out. When I finally ask why two years later, she says it’s because I’m too depressing and self-deprecating. She suggests I see a counselor.

I would love to say this is some sort of isolated incident… but I know from my life and the lives of others it’s not. Misery may love company, but company doesn’t love misery. People don’t want to deal with miserable, depressed people. And why would you? Happiness is a good feeling. Sad people make YOU sad, and that sucks, right?

So, if you want to know why you’re shocked and surprised that someone you know was depressed and killed themselves, that’s exactly why. Because depressed doesn’t mean stupid. Depressed people know you don’t like to be around depressed people. Hell, I host trivia for 2+ hours five nights a week. Do you think I would still be paid if I told all of them how down I was? People don’t want a 2-hour sadfest. So those that are depressed, lonely, miserable… they tend to hide it. I’ve made the mistake in years past of thinking friendly acquaintances would care about my feelings, but they don’t. Those feelings are a drag. They’re a downer. So I’ve been teaching myself to try to keep my chin up, to “fake it until I make it” so to speak… and to really not announce my depression every time it hits me. And despite what those on my social media networks may think, I’ve been getting a lot better at just hiding my feelings in crappy eating habits and losing the desire to ever leave bed.

Am I depressed? …maybe. I’m too afraid to see a counselor and find out I am, that I’m not in complete control of my mind. Personally, I like to think I’m just having a slump. A really long one. There are good moments in my life that bring me cheer… and moments, even recent ones, that nearly kill me. I had one such moment last month. I asked two friends to kill me (only slightly joking before I broke down in tears). I ended up telling my tale to a cop that pulled me over for speeding later that day when my hand was shaking so badly I couldn’t get my driver’s license out of my wallet. He asked if I had any guns in the car. I didn’t get a ticket. To date, only 7 people, including the cop and the other person involved, know what happened. Not just because I hate myself for what happened and am afraid of what people will think of me… but also because I don’t know who’s there for me.

And that’s one of the worst things about depression. It blinds you to the people there for you. The lonelier moments are more clear than the ones with people who care. If someone like Williams, who had success and love in his life, couldn’t find a way out, what hope would someone like me, someone told to get over it, have?

So I hope I’m not depressed. Not just because it’s a pretty awful mental health disorder, but also because that’s a level of hopelessness I don’t want to think about. I’m not looking for pity. I’m not looking for close, buddy-buddy friends. I wouldn’t know what to do with them at this point in my life anyway. I’ve got some good things going on that I’m trying to focus on. The moral of my story, the point I’m trying to make, isn’t a personal one. It’s to say that I think everyone can do better. Everyone can be more diligent looking for depression. Don’t reject the funny person the day he or she drops the act around you and tries to tell you about his/her crap. We need to learn to accept the people we like for their good AND their bad. Don’t call suicide a selfish act. That’s like calling drowning after years of trying to swim to the surface a selfish act. The selfishness is in the people that see depression and ignore it. The selfishness is in people that don’t want to be sad so they give sad people distance. Some days, people want to be left alone. But it’s so much better to know someone is there when you walk back into the crowd than to know you’ll be alone whether you jump back into the crowd or not.

If we want anything to get better, we have to start taking steps on a personal level.

Robin Williams, you influenced me more than you will ever know, and the world will miss you. I hope maybe something good can come of all this sadness.

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Feeling Sick Is The Worst

Okay. Not literally the worst. I know there are worse things than stomach cramps and nausea.

But it’s definitely not fun.

After staying up until 5 a.m. or so via a theatre party (second time in a row I’ve done that…), I thought exhaustion was the thing I’d feel today. And I have, definitely. Almost got a good nap in there at one point, but I’d’ve missed a script reading for a stage adaptation of a Terry Pratchett novel, “Wyrd Sisters.” For those that don’t know, Pratchett is a brilliantly witty and quirky British satirist (though his earlier stuff is mostly just quirk), author of the Discworld series of books, among others. Such as a co-authored book, “Good Omens,” written with Neil Gaiman. “Wyrd Sisters” is a parodying of the story of the Shakespearean play “Macbeth,” and it’s wonderful. As is the stage adaptation. Good fun. We hope to do a staged reading of the show sometime in March or April of the coming year, I believe.

So, that’ll be fun. Here’s hoping they keep me in the cast. I got to read the part of the Actor-Manager.

…With my several stage managing credits, I couldn’t possibly understand how I got that role…*

Anyway, after all that was done, I came home, ate food… and now I feel a bit ill. AND exhausted. It’s pretty terrible. So I’m holding off on any legit posting for today. Hopefully soon, I’ll get to explore the world of racist sandwiches.

Should be fun.

*I’m not nearly as funny as Pratchett, no joke.

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Sing, Sang, Sung – “Dancing Mad” By The Black Mages

M’kay. So, I finally finished that 15-page screenplay adaptation of “Macbeth.” Like… two minutes ago. So, not much time to write about anything else. My apologies. It’s not that Macbeth took long… but I did have a game night tonight. I believe we played Elder Sign, which is Arkham Horror but just with dice and an environment built by cards. Fun, even if we lost badly the first two times. Stupid elder gods… Still, as it wasn’t actually Arkham Horror, I’ve yet to lose Arkham Horror. So nyah.

…anyway. Lots of writing, napping, playing games… so, as a result, you get a dinky song post!


This one comes from Final Fantasy VI (or Final Fantasy III as it originally came out in America). It’s a rather long song, which makes sense since it’s the final boss’s theme. And you’re not supposed to beat the final boss very fast.

I mean, you can, but you’re not supposed to.

The version I’m linking is specifically the one done by The Black Mages, the group that video game music composer Nobuo Uematsu created basically to legitimately play all of his music in something other than 8-bit sound. It’s the song I’ve been using to gauge how long a drive takes. The original video game version lasts 17 minutes. This one only lasts about 12 minutes. Earlier today, when traffic was terrible, was the first time I’ve had to repeat the song. No other time have I ever gotten through the entire song before I got to where I needed to be.

Anyway, if you enjoy pipe organ, this song will appease you. If you like epic, dramatic guitar solos, this song will appease you about 8 and a half minutes in. Give it a listen if you have time.

“Dancing Mad” – The Black Mages

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From The Inkwell – “Tormenting Tantalus” And Adapting “Macbeth”

So, I’ve been working on assignments as my friend David Bolus gives them to me. It helps encourage me to actually, y’know, finish my projects. The last finished product is the one act play “Tormenting Tantalus.” Which may have a name change to just “Tantalus.” Or perhaps even “T.” I dunno.

Anyway, I talked about the play at least once before, but I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it since its completion. Part of a planned mythology trilogy, “Tantalus” is the first play, one that delves into what could drive people to a level of madness that leads to infanticide and cannibalism.

…yeah, if you don’t know the story of the mythological figure Tantalus, this play will seem WAY out of left field.

I have finally figured out which figures will be covered in the trilogy, though, which is exciting. Tantalus, Prometheus and Orpheus. All rather tragic stories. Some tragedies far more violent and abhorrent than others, of course, but each has a story to tell. A story that was, perhaps, left to the listener to discern. That’s how it feels to me, at least. And these plays, when complete, will hopefully tell my version of that story.

I really like religion in all its forms. If you can’t tell. My first two completed works of theatre deal with Christianity and Greek mythology. And my next original work will hopefully be “God’s Playlist” before I head back to hit “Prometheus.” After that, then I take a break from the religious overtones and write my screenplay for “The Tribe.”

…that one has more of a cult feel than a religion feel.

…yeah, one day I’ll write about something else.

Anyway, currently, I’m adapting William Shakespeare’s “Macbeth”  (because there are so many others) into a 15-minute screenplay. Why? Because the short story format baffles me. My first short story was 36 pages long, and could have easily been much longer. The shortest thing I’ve ever even conceived is “God’s Playlist,” a 15-minute movie. Of course, filmmakers don’t see that as short at all. And after discovering it can take a week to film for a two-minute movie, I suppose I can see their point.

When I told David this, he gave me the assignment of writing a 15-minute screenplay. It could either be an original story about Emily from “Camp Gethsemane” or an adaptation of any other work. Then he said the word “Shakespeare.”

And, of course, being an idiot, I chose that one. The first act of “Macbeth” has been boiled down into three pages. The second act, the one where King Duncan gets murdered, is a single page.

I feel really weird doing this.

Still, I’m four and a half pages in now, nearly a third of the way through. With it due this Friday, I think I’m making good time. It should be an interesting final product.

But, back to ACTUAL final products… sort of. “Tantalus” is now in the peer review and edit phase. So far, only one peer has reviewed it, but others have it in their possession. And if the workshop/reading for “CG” goes well this weekend, there may be others interested in my work. Which is all pretty awesome.

…the point is, last time I wrote about “Tantalus,” I gave you the intro as it was written. There were some changes in description and such, but it remained largely untouched. Now, I give you the next scene. A scene of normalcy and happiness. …you just know that ain’t gonna last.


The BOOKKEEPER watches impartially. This is his duty. The story must be told. As he watches the events unfold before him, the DENIZENS of this story come onstage, carrying the items to set the scene. They seem wracked with constant fears and pains. They are the ones moaning for their eternities, trapped in the hellish punishments, designed specifically for them. Dressed in rags of grey, they are hunched over, twitching and moving unnaturally. They look to be falling apart. The MAN does not notice them, but does move out of the way, going to the far corner to put on his tie. The DENIZENS do not moan now. They simply do as the BOOKKEEPER has instructed. They know their duty in this story. They bring out a small, square table, a kitchen chair, some mail, a briefcase. They set the table cattycornered in the corner, putting the chair near it. The briefcase and papers go on the table. The DENIZENS head back offstage, shuffling silently, as the MAN finishes tying his tie and heads to the kitchen table. After the DENIZENS leave, the lights come up, normal, bright, cheery. The BOOKKEEPER remains at his post. The MAN sits down at the table, looking through the mail. The WOMAN comes in, carrying a plate of toast, bacon and eggs and a cup of coffee.

WOMAN: Morning, sweetie.

She sets the plate and cup on the table, avoiding the mail.

MAN: Good morning, love.

The two share a kiss. The MAN reaches for the coffee as he reads the letter he is currently holding. The WOMAN sits at the table next to him as he takes a drink.

WOMAN: Today’s the day they’re giving out that promotion, right? Are you worried?

The MAN sets down the letter, turning and smiling at the WOMAN.

MAN: Maria. Dear. There’s no reason to worry about these sorts of things. Either I’ll get it, or I won’t. Besides, you know it’ll either be me or Kenneth that gets it, and we both promised that, whoever gets the position, we’ll put in a good word for the other. So no worries.

The MAN kisses MARIA, then returns to his breakfast, piling his eggs and bacon onto his toast and eating. MARIA rolls her eyes and stands, standing behind the MAN and sliding her arms around him slowly. The MAN sets his breakfast toast pile back on the plate, caressing MARIA’s arms.

MARIA: You know, Jacob… it would hurt to get a little worried about things once in a while.

JACOB smirks, looking back at her.

JACOB: You want me to stress out and be more worried?

MARIA: Well, sure. It’s healthy sometimes. Shows that you care what happens. That you have some passion for what you do.

JACOB raises an eyebrow.

JACOB: I’ll show you passion, missy.

JACOB spins MARIA into his lap, growling in a playful, sexy manner, closing in for a slow, deep kiss as MARIA giggles and moans softly in pleasure. Such playful moments have an end to them, however. The BOY comes rushing in.

BOY: Daddy, daddy, daddy!

JACOB breaks the kiss with MARIA and smiles at her. She smiles back, leaving his lap and straightening her outfit out. She heads off to get PETER some juice. JACOB reaches down to pick up the BOY and put him in his lap.

JACOB: Heeeeey, Peter! Hungry for some breakfast?

PETER smiles and hugs his dad around the neck. JACOB smiles and kisses the top of PETER’s head before turning him around and lifting him again.

JACOB: Let’s get you sitting in the chair… there you go.

JACOB slides out from under PETER and lets PETER sit in his chair. PETER starts devouring the breakfast left over from JACOB’s brief affair with the meal. MARIA returns, holding a sippy cup with some juice inside. She puts the cup on the table near the plate, and PETER grabs at it eagerly, drinking from the cup as though he had been dying of thirst. JACOB takes the suit jacket off the back of the chair and slips it on. MARIA goes to his front to straighten his tie. Everything is perfect, happy, wonderful.

MARIA: I hope I’ll get to see that passion later, stud.

JACOB: You know you will.

They kiss. True love. Clearly, they care for one another. JACOB grabs his briefcase and quickly pecks MARIA again.

JACOB: Love you.

MARIA: Love you, too.

JACOB ruffles PETER’s head. PETER waves at his dad, still ravenously devouring the last bits of the breakfast left for him.

JACOB: See you later, kiddo.

PETER attempts to say goodbye, but his mouth is filled with buttery, crisp bread, fluffy egg and salty bacon, which proceeds to spray forth back onto the plate in small amounts. MARIA squats down and wipes at PETER’s mouth with a napkin.

MARIA: Swallow then speak, Peter. And have a good day at work, sweetie!

JACOB: See you tonight!

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Can We Please Have More Responsible Politicians?

So, first thing’s first… today is kind of boring. I spent a large portion of the day helping to blow up a friend of mine’s Facebook status via discussions of Chick-fil-A, the LGBT(Alphabet Soup) community and all the tangents that come from that. Including Christianity and Constitutionality and so forth.

There was, apparently, a “kiss-in” or something at many Chick-fil-A’s today. A counter-protest. And, of course, some counter-protesters have gotten out of hand, such as the guy who was berating a random Chick-fil-A employee, ultimately harming their own cause.

But I’ve already talked about Chick-fil-A twice. Once should’ve been more than enough, but I felt the need to revisit it, and I really don’t feel like talking more about it here.

Oddly, I was going to talk about “You didn’t build that.” I was thinking about titling the post “We Built This Business All On Our Own,” to be hummed to the tune of “We Built This City” by Starship.

…but then I looked back and realized I already wrote about it in a post boringly titled “The Honesty Gaffe.”

Man. I creativeblock myself far too often.

Which, speaking of, my current assignment from my friend David Bolus (remember that name, it will be a big deal one day) is to write a 15-minute script. 15 pages of screenplay format. Because I said that sort of thing is hard for me. His caveats were to make it either A) about a character from “Camp Gethsemane” or B) an adaptation. Then he went and suggested Shakespeare. So, of course, I chose that. And now, by next Friday, I have to have “Macbeth” shortened to a 15-minute script.

It’s cool. I’ve already got 6.67% done. …So, you know… a page.

Guess who’ll be writing 14 pages next Thursday night!

Anyway, the reason I’m blathering on about all this instead of politicians is because there’s not much else to say. Can we please have more responsible politicians? Congress went into a five week recess today after a large period of doing absolutely nothing. Well, not absolutely nothing. The House Republicans, after all, attempted to repeal Obamacare over 30 times, even after it was approved as Constitutional.

So there’s that.

But then, there’s also this thing where Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid (so, a Democrat) said in an interview with Huffington Post that he was told by an unnamed source that Mitt Romney didn’t pay taxes for 10 years.

Pretty much everyone has been agreeing that was a silly thing to say with no proof. Granted, yes, Romney’s refusal to show his tax returns for a large chunk of time, proving his hypocrisy on the entire issue, is pretty ridiculous, and, yes, it invites a lot of postulating as to WHY he wouldn’t release them. But such postulations are better left vague, or within personal conversations. They probably shouldn’t be stated as though they were fact in an interview with a national publication. Though I will say, it’s quite ironic (pretty sure I’m using irony right) for Romney to tell Reid to “put up or shut up,” considering he’s the one that needs to put up in order to get everyone else to shut up.

And then, of course, there’s the fun bit where everyone is using this as a reason to attack President Barack Obama. You know, a guy wholly uninvolved with the entire affair.

It’s all rather childish. And makes me have to sit and just think, “Oy.”

Seriously. That’s my reaction to everything from these past few days. “Oy.”

…It’d be great if we didn’t have such childish people in the nation… Or, y’know, running it/attempting to run it.

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