Why It’s Been Ten Months.

I’d like to say it’s because I’ve been out living a life. But sorry, Frankie Muniz in that one episode of Criminal Minds, I don’t really do that.

Well, I have a semblance of one. I’m in New Zealand, so that’s fun and exciting, right? But I’ve also been staring at my laptop screen in New Zealand for the past four hours. So, less fun and less exciting.

I suppose I’ve been devoid of heart squishers lately. I’ve had the odd excitement, never lasting in time measured in more than weeks or actually existing much anywhere outside the mental workspace medicalnewstoday.com says houses my imagination. But Florian totally did flirt with me, despite the language barrier. So, I’ve had a little less angst (still a lot because, come on, that’s me) and a lot more time to try to Know Thy Myself. Steps in the right direction perhaps. Not that I’ve actually been developing as a complete person. I’m not that productive.

I also have been poeming around the Tumblr some, so that’s been catching more of my spaghetti.

And I also kind of forgot I had this. That’s a main reason.

What made me remember this was Oscar Issac. I was being an freaking idiot (thanks a lot, Rachel) and watching a really long interview with him on YouTube because that’s what the cool kids do at an Airbnb in Kawakawa at 7:30pm, and something reminded me I had this wordpress and I had something to write here but then I of course started reading all the old posts and pushing my initial idea out of my  head by thinking all these other thoughts, most of them along the lines of “man, I was a crap writer in 2011 and 12.” And so now  I don’t even know AND I KEEP FUCKING LAYING MY FAT PALMS ON THE TRACKPAD AND ACCIDENTALLY MISTYPING THINGS AND OPENING UP WEIRD THINGS ON ACCIDENT FUCK. Ok I’m fine.

I really wonder if I’ll ever realize my scripts. I hope so. It would be a shame for all of those hours I spent in bed eight counting fight choreography to Big Bad Wolf to go to waste (pale reader, fuck off this idea it’s mine coming soon/never to a theater near you). Oh, I might need to actually write it. And in Celtx instead of scribble typing in Notepad. And I should transcribe the autobiography too while I’m at it. Fingers crossed copy+paste will fully work on that one.

Another observation that I’ve made before and am once again feeling feelings about: I need to stop potentially ruining things by overthinking and analyzing and researching. I need to shield my eyes and set my lasers from stun to kill. OR, conversely/contrariwise, I should get a grip (Lyle) and stop even thinking there’s anything to potentially ruin. Because I’m awful and I’m never going to be Jell-O OR crème brûlée OR basically any dessert besides that gross dollar store chocolate that tastes like chemicals and like it’s been stored near oranges for some reason.

But maybe just maybe me and him will duet to La Tortura someday because he does speak Spanish, I know because I Googled him fuck me.

I hope I can audition to be Moana in a park. And, prior to that, I hope the movie is good and has good songs in my range (i.e. basically baritone).

I also need to find a swimsuit top for Samoa. And a sense of the opposite of inhibition.


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Scratch my back.

Bite my lip.

Breathe me in, and shake my hips.

Pull my hair.

Tease my skin.

Lay me down, and I’ll let you in.

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To the future Mister Person.

it suddenly smells like Ramen noodles in here. that’s neither here nor there, though. moving on.

hey you. it’s me.

just thinking, as per the ush, about stuff. and i felt i might warn you about a few things.
some disclaimers like i’ve done before, but these will be a bit funner and a lot weirder, i figure.
but here goes.

i’m going to want to do a lot of weird things with you.
i’m going to want to bite you i think. quite a bit. not vampirically or in any other way supernaturally. just normal human mouth bites. ok?
i’m going to want to go to strange, remote places with you.
with soft grass and no one within earshot.
i’m going to want to take a lot of malleable food there.
squishable, spreadable, squirtable food.
i’m going to want to throw these foods at your body.
i’m going to want to scratch you.
i’m going to want to braid your hair.
i’m going to want to beat you at dance central.
and also dance central 2.
i’m going to want to jump into water with you.
i’m going to want to float with you.
i’m going to want to pull your leg hair.
i’m going to want to sit on a roof with you.
a shingled one, not one of those stupid, safe, flat roofs.
i’m going to want to subject you to hours on end of my cinematic heart pieces.
i’m going to want to do things you want to do, too.
but, as i don’t know who you are, it would be hard to describe those things as of yet.
i’m going to want to forget about everyone else but you.
and like five family members and my pets.
i’m going to want to smell you.
all the time.
when you’re not looking.
i’m going to want to sing with you, dance with you, sweat with you, intertwine with you, love you. long time.

so fucking get here already.
once i’m super buff and sexy. er. since, c’mon, i shakira dance all the time. i’m about at 72% sexy potential already.

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Who who? Who who?

So, in the movies, in stories in general really [in in in in], there are an array of characters. But for the sake of my point, I will elaborate upon a certain type of story and two of the characters therein: the self-discovery, “coming of age” tale, and the protagonist and the weirdo that gets them going [and and and and].

The protagonist in these types is a generally normalish person who has maybe just lost their way or their general gusto for life. [Trade secret: the audience is supposed to relate closely with this character, and therefore go through the arc of the story/movie/thing in a very personal way. Thus, the protagonist, especially in bigger budget, larger distribution, stuff, is watered down/generalized/every-manned just enough to be relatable to the widest audience [i.e. the money spending sheep of consumerism and cinematic date nights and the like.]]

Then, there’s the weirdo. Possibly the psycho. The one who gets all those juices aflowing. This is who we want to be, or at least we greatly envy this character’s most obtuse… characteristic. Their unabashedness, their zest for la vida, or whatever else makes them the sparkly object in our peripherals. But this character is almost always eventually shown to have a downfall – emotionally stunted, past full o’ pain, an elaborate delusion of the protagonist’s split personality and therefore nonexistent, etc.

Now, MY POINT. When the movie is all said and done, the crescendo of music fades, the last bit of viewing information has left the screen – it is there that you can find yourself. A little, not like Jungian enlightenment or anything ridiculous. Just shut up and let me finish.

What I’m saying is – when it fades to black and you have to tuck your knees so the people in your row can go take a piss, who do you want to be? When all the plot points have finished, the cards are on the table, and you know all the director saw fit to show you, which life would you prefer?

Do you want to be that center of the universe protagonist – the Mr. Smith who’s a pretty good guy and learns something? Or do you want to be the borderline personality disorder that taught the lesson? Cady or Regina? Suzanna or Lisa? Tyler Durden or TYLER DURDEN?

It’s very easy to say we’d like to be the badass, guns ablazing cool dude that has the world as his fucking psychedelic oyster for the first hour of film. Very easy. But, to stick around in that skin through the shit second act, that takes a little more commitment, yes? To not only be soap making, leather jacket wearing Brad Pitt full of philosophy and sperm, but to stay through the gun in the mouth. Ok, this isn’t the very best example, let’s switch gears. To be not only the cool, yet anatomically misinformed, sociopath who runs the psych ward, but to also be the strapped down lifer whose dead already. A little better.

It’s probably obvious that I’m of the school of thought that favors the crazys. I, at this moment, think I could take the crushing blows that kind of reality would surely rain down in the long run. I do think it is better to burn out than fade away. I’d really like gray hair, but don’t want to live out my 40s. I would really enjoy being the light that burns twice as bright but half as long, and I feel honest admiration and jealousy of the characters who do so. Perhaps it’s a le “phase” or what-ever, but I like them and we’ve bonded, I’m keeping them.

Many will say that’s immature, irresponsible, insane. I appreciate the constructive feedback, please. And those people are the nice little protagonist who had a little wild and crazy fun, but now let’s be reasonable adults and get on with it, yes? Think of the good of society and so forth. Bullshit. Fuck society. But sure, go along and live your life in a can, in the cell you dress up with throw pillows and call a ten-year plan. I’ll be over here, sans mortgage and offspring. HaHA.

So, you spaghetti-eating reader you, I don’t want to put words in your actual mouth. You might be on a perpindicularly brilliant train of thought that hasn’t even occurred to me. So by all means, weigh the sides, measure them, and see which you find wanting. Then, tell me, who are you?

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how easy it is
to tumble
to fall
to leap without looking

how painful it is
to not be caught

how marvelous the feeling
of reckless abandon
how thrilling the first
look, touch, taste

how crushing the blow
the one you closed your eyes to
of reality, of the human
you were pretending was perfect

how serendipitous
the ways do seem
when newness and excitement
glimmer and gloss

how unfair, how unnerving
the unraveling of the magic
revealing the rudimentary workings beneath

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Brain Space Needed.

Dang, I am going to be glad once I finally find him and do sex and have the romantical type of love. For the obvious reasons, obviously, but also so I can friggin’ write about other stuff.

My brain is so preoccupied on the daily by the idea of love and all that that implies, and I can barely stick a thought in sideways about the time-space continuum or Terminator metal.

I need an external brain for more stuff. Partitioned for Apple and PC, please. (Stupid Asian Justin Bieber)

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It’s not fun to preserve yourself. It is a struggle. In this day in age when a free app, a few minutes, and some gasoline can get you some. A lot of some. Even if he doesn’t think you’re pretty and dives to turn the lights off, it would scratch the itch.

But not satisfyingly. The itch that such an encounter would placate could be scratched solo. It is the eternal itch, the one inside the inside of my soul, that’s the one that’s killing me.

I am twenty two. I have wanted sex for almost half of my life. I have not done it. Partially because of my upbringing, mostly these days because of my idealism and good moral fibre. The kind that seems to be lacking in my generation. And others, I’m sure, but more obviously now. I’m holding out for my man, and praying to God that he exists and we find each other before I go insane(r). MY BODY IS READY, but not at all really.

I have a problem with people who don’t not do sex willy nilly. They are screwing (figuratively) shiz up. They are taking something that should be the pinnacle of true and life-long-lasting love, and squandering it on the last barista that gave them a free drink. It’s stupid and they are stupid and it should not be allowed. And they shouldn’t be allowed to be happy about it. Casual sex IS NOT OKAY. Why don’t people get that?

So, as I am reading an undeniably non-virginal girl’s writing, about all the boys/men she’s “loved” and all the “history” she’s had, and all the “poetic ramblings” she produces from her past, I feel sorry for her through the jealousy. Because, although I automatically want the shiz she’s been fortunate to have because I am biologically inclined to want to do sex, I immediately reneg on that snap decision. If I had it, I would feel cheap. I think she probably does. Hence, pity. But she also lies to herself and puts a red feather in her cap and calls it “cultured” and “real” and that just makes me want to slap her across the face. I won’t though. Airfare.

And I am left to deal with this lingering sense of superiority that all of tumblr and new “progressive” teenagers would prude-shame me for having. LE SORRY, I am not slut-shaming, because their own psyches can and will and should do that for them. I am not trying to be mean-spirited or I would talk about her to real humans behind her back and call her many more impolite names. But I don’t, I put it on here where no one can hear me. I am slightly trying to minimize the negativity.

Anyway, I am a virgin and I do not want to be. But I have the patience to wait on forever love, twoo wuv, not the feeling the world says is it. Because it’s not. Love is not a feeling, it is an amorphous blob of thing that cannot be adequately described in human tongue. The feeling is merely a single symptom of a much greater beast.

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