Wicked director David Stanley writes
"...thursday, around 3 in the morning, i'm blogging about how i want to kill myself. i have had a huge fight with my neighbor, gotten some disappointing news from work, and been smoking too much pot, and watching "hostel" waaay too much.
i had slashed open my hand so awful that the muscle popped up in between the skin flap, as if i was squeezing it between my fingers, and white, maggot-brained little nodes and a severed nerve took a shot to wave to me and say hello...
blood is spurting, orgeysering everywhere, spattin' the new copy of the LA Weekly, the one with Luke Ford on the cover . . . hitting the floor, flying all over the white shirt I bought in Chicago with Ally.
...they sent me over to the Northridge Medical Center to meet with a team of skilled psycho-analysts and social workers. So i went there, to the most depressing hospital waiting room I've ever been to. And I waited. Six hours."
Wow, what a winner. Why can't people just step in front of a train or something. While I've had a close friend take her own life, this combination of a half-assed effort mixed with a whinning post describing his failure reeks of loser pathos.
What an idiot.
Ashley, what the fuck were you thinking to let this moron fuck you for free?