It’s not good. I can tell you right now, it is not good.
I’m self-narrating to myself in Steve Buscemi’s voice and Quentin Tarantino’s rhetoric. What the fuck was I just saying? Big dicks. Madonna.
So, this point. It’s where I stop breathing voluntarily for a while. I let my eyes bulge and get over-moist and I shake my head semi-desperately and give wild eyed looks to my laptop screen and a pile of books on my desk. I touch my face in ways I think would look fucking artistic. I’m shaky, but not really. Not unwillingly.
I’m trying to fucking look like WHAT’S HER FUCKING NAME? In Lawless, the redhead. She gets double fucking raped, and then drives her boss/person Forrest to the hospital with a slit throat (Forrest, not her. Just watch the damn movie). And in her first moment of peace/crushing silence in which to contemplate the platter of shit her life has become since the fucking debacle, she lights a cigarette and shakes. With darkening bruises up and down her arm. And God knows where else.
I’M DOING THOSE SHAKES. Why? I have not – could not even fathom – the level of emotional, physical, spiritual, metaphysical pain that character sustained. I’m just an over-sheltered, naive, ridiculous blight of a 21 year old girl who is a little emotionally unstable right now. For no good fucking reason.
I am in like. (kick me in the teeth please) And I am in very possibly unrequited like. I am constructing an illusion for myself. There is outer stimuli, but the translation is all but Completely Unreliable. Translator: me. I am ridiculous. I am PATHETIC.
I figured I use that word enough to need a definition handy. And I am always referring to the secondary definition. For future, past, and present reference.
I don’t know. I need to sleep.
I need a way to get this emotion out.
I need to box. Really. I do.