The G Spot

For a complete emotional release, I watched Lost in Translation and Eternal Sunshine of A Spotless Mind back to back. Life is better in the movies. There is some sort of ending.

I should be sad, or angry after the day's revelations. I should feel something, anything but this certain numbness, a raw impotent anger, bruised and beaten.

This discussion via IM, rather than face to face. If we were in the same room, slapping distance, there would be electricity. A jolt to waken these deadened senses, this apathy. Instead, he is as dead inside as monkey shit.

Films and music promise a simulacrum of oblivion. As the images unfold and wrap me up, I let myself drown in the silver screen - I'm a character with a memory wipe, a blank slate, a girl lost in Tokyo, a cynical failed actor escaping a bad marriage, a girl that makes potato people, a stranger in a strange city. In the words of CBG 'There is no emoticon for what I am feeling'.

Lovely Mad Dog Marshall, who is really a big softy, cooked me a birthday feast. Sweet Bleeding Gums Turner softened me up with a few birthday beers. Glad I have friends with cowboy names.

The weight is still just falling away. I feel heavy as a stone, and yet I'm lighter everytime I get on the scales. It's like shedding a skin. I've emerged from some chrysalis, but I'm no butterfly floating on indigo wings. Nope, I'm some sort of singed and cynical punk moth bent on destruction, bang, bang, banging around a bare bulb of pain.

Hmmm... should get back to my goth poetry days.

Destructive distractions

Dirty House - thanks to Steph and Kingo
Kickboxing - voted the most aggressive in the class. Love finding a new bruise on my body.
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Interpol, Mylo
Cigarettes