Writing makes me hate myself

I sit here on a Saturday night at 7:30pm with no plans to go out. I have a date with my screenplay. I think I mentioned before that I am working on a feature about my most prevalent and puzzling question. What the f*** is love? I'm pretty sure we all wonder about that one... And I'm also fairly sure that no one REALLY has an answer. There are various theories and postulations... But, it seems to be one of the unanswerable ones.

My hope is that by recounting and digging through my own experiences with 'love' at least something new will reveal itself and bring me some kind of peace of mind or momentary catharsis.

Have I lost you yet? Maybe some of you are rolling your eyes at this point because maybe some of you know something or many things, for that matter, that I don't. But, I can tell you one thing that I do know for sure, and that is this: writing makes me hate myself.

It's true. As soon as I put the words down on paper that have waltzed out my mouth at one point or another, I feel this intense desire to want to throw up, close my eyes really tight, shake my head and plead to the heavens for time travel so that I can go back into the past and change what transpired. If only I had said this. If only I had done that. Oh lord have mercy!

Of course, I am being slightly over dramatic... I try to live without regret and in doing so, stand strong in the choices I have made. But, it is true that often times when I put an experience on paper as truthfully as possible, the places that I am lying to myself become obvious, and sometimes I feel ashamed. Ashamed that I am human, and that I make the same mistakes for which I criticize others.

I consider myself someone who always has good intentions and tries to do the right thing, but I realize when I write, that being a 'good' person is no saving grace. We all find ourselves caught in situations where temptation and truth are in a constant battle. We all want to walk away feeling like we did our best and the rest lies in the hands of the divine.

But, trust me, go back and examine your last romantic encounter with a fine toothed comb and see what you come up with... Tell me, was it squeaky clean? Do you have any lurking questions? Did your past rear it's ugly head? If you answer no to all these questions, you're probably lying. And, if you're not lying, well then, good for you. But if you do happen to share the same sentiments that I do, then don't worry, you're not alone.