Fuck me, and SIGH, and angst, moving on.
Edited to add: Actually, part of why I don't care to feel guilty is that I'm just hitting week two of not drinking, and that's all that matters to me right now and I'm sorry, but all the rest is just going to have to wait until I have the energy to give it focus. So there.
I'm a warm and kind person...no wait, I'm a narcissist! No, really, warm and kind...narcissist!
Whatever. Moving on.
I met Maren this weekend, aka sophia_helix. Yes. I met someone. In the flesh. And was social. I suspect I may be...a robot!!!!
Maren is officially a cute little thing, and if I'd had my spycam embedded in my eyeglasses, I'd share pictures with you, but instead you'll just have to take my word for it.
While out, I bought a book called "Inappropriate Behavior: Prada Sucks! and other Demented Descants." It's an anthology of more or less politically incorrect essays by women on all sorts of subjects. The quote that grabbed me was, "Like all forms of art, cinema is a spiritual medium full of sublime metaphysical possibilities, with the capacity to provoke all kinds of intense and profound emotions, perceptions, insights and prophecies: the truths of trapped light." That's from an essay called, "Why I hate Gwyneth Paltrow."
There was another essay on a pro-fat premise, which seemed timely, and it was talking about a British magazine called "Belly," which now has an online site. It's a porn thing, and not that there's anything wrong with that, but what always deflates an article like this for me is when you go and look at what's being written about and discover that it's been touted as more radical or trendy or meaningful than it really is, and you realize that virtually all writing with an agenda is a form of hype. Like, the article built up the guy who founded the magazine as a kind of porny hero, a champion of fat girls, and maybe he's all that and a bag of chips, but there's still this part of me that dubiously says ehhhhh. Because, you know, maybe he's just a very unheroic guy who wants to take pictures of naked fat girls and make money off it.
I wish more people would write about things from a stance of uncommitted ambivalence. But you know, it's quite possible that ambivalence is only honesty to *me* (and only interesting to me), and that people's seemingly slanted and simplistic agendas really do stem from their own honestly held opinions.
I don't even know why I'm talking about this.
Anyway, the book looks interesting. And after strolling up and down Broadway with Maren and her nice boyfriend, I came home and lay on the couch and watched Galaxy Quest. And cried. Yes. I cry at Galaxy Quest. I also like the movie Angel Heart. Somewhere out there, I like to think, is my soulmate, who shares my same appreciation for gore-spattered sex and friendly aliens.
(No, not really.)
Then I started watching So I Married an Axe Murderer, but interrupted myself for this week's QAF. The next to last episode--I wish I knew why this season was so short. Damn them.
It felt a little flat, as episodes go (an ep without B/J sex is like a soda without fizz), but the tension surrounding the murder case is winching up tight. And if I hadn't watched the previews for next week I'd be even more itchy and angsty.
Oh, and: Michael is such a nice boy. Such a good boy!
Comments may contain spoilers for the ep.