On Main Character Syndrome, Identity Theft, and the introduction of Jimmy Con I've suffered from main character syndrome for most of my life. I suppose having an extraordinarily overdramatic mother helped establish that foundation pretty early. In our household, life wasn't simply lived. It was performed. Every inconvenience had the potential to become a crisis. Every disagreement could escalate into a three-act tragedy. Every emotional disturbance required an audience, prefe

There are certain things that happen during childhood that, for reasons nobody can adequately explain, become permanent fixtures in your brain. Core memories. Not necessarily the important stuff. Not birthdays, graduations (I only had one, by the skin of my teeth, or because they just wanted me gone), or those carefully orchestrated moments your parents spent hundreds of dollars trying to make memorable. Sometimes it’s something completely fucking ridiculous. I have a few. On

recently read something about Heath Ledger’s journal while he was preparing to play the Joker in The Dark Knight. There was a post on Instagram showing pages from it—images, scribbled thoughts, disturbing references, fragments of things he was apparently studying while trying to crawl inside the head of Gotham’s most maniacal villain. It was fascinating. It was also fucking dark. First off, I should establish that I’m partial to Jack Nicholson’s Joker. Picture five-year-old J

I had a dream my mother hugged me. Not just hugged me. Held me. Tightly. With genuine care behind her intent. Like a new mother holding an infant, she embraced her adult son with the intention of somehow making everything okay again. There was no hesitation in it. No awkwardness. No history. She just grabbed me and held me. And I let her. That’s probably what fucked me up the most when I woke up. Because some part of me has wanted that hug for a very long time. My relationshi