I spent almost the entire weekend staring at one ceiling or another--flat on my back like a whore! ...except that I was merely listening to CDs and noodling. And, okay, sometimes I rolled over onto my belly and napped. I don't feel quite as much guilt as I normally would for all that underutilized time. I think my hands and fingers needed a typing rest. My brain feels like a cantaloupe that's been left on the shelf too long, though. All those seeds of stories rotting away inside, juice drying up.
I surfed cable a lot, and there was a lot of crap on. Tell me why I pay $70 a month for a service that brings me "It's Pat!" and shows LotR on three stations at the same time. Lame. Mostly I let the TV play without sound. I watch a lot of things without sound--Angel eps, Buffy eps. Right now I'm rewatching "Equilibrium" that way. Also saw the first 20 minutes of "Stardust Memories" earlier, silent--my god, that's just pure visual pleasure to watch. Black and white, shot after artfully crafted shot, each one designed with pure love of film, you can tell. But I didn't think much of the visual "joke" of the blown-up photograph, the infamous one of the Vietnamese man crying just before he's executed, which looms in the background while Allen's character is saying how he doesn't want to make comedies anymore. Creepy.
To repeat: I lay around all weekend. I thought of Spike and Xander and Wes. I listened to Stevie Ray Vaughn. I stared zombielike at my laptop screen, or off into space. I went to IHOP. I could have a massive stroke tonight as I sleep and my last thoughts will be of men fucking. My capacity for critical thought is crippled by overstimulation. It has a cramp in its pants.
I've decided that I am in fact at my sexual peak and it's being more or less wasted on imaginary men and my shower massager. Also: who knew one's sexual peak could be so freaking annoying? It's a constant! goddamn! distraction!
Enough said about that.
The memory of Spike at Buffy's birthday party with the black eye, post-beating, makes me sad. And he brings Clem. That is so fucking sad. So I've been giving him a lot of love all weekend. He's been fucked until he's melty, fucked into a melty pat of butter. Griddled vampire.
Am I porn-obsessed? Okay, but am I mentally disturbed? Okay, but look--as long as I don't club beagles to death, can I daydream of girly men? If I do all this and still get depressed, if I do this and I have body issues, if I do all this and am alone, am I a raging and deeply pathetic fannish cliche?
"This is your life and it's ending one minute at a time." And huh, this was just going to be a peep but it got all morbid and shit. And hey, if you're a congenitally smug, know-it-all, antislash hetbot with delusions of psychological superiority and you've just surfed in to point and smirk, I'd like to end this post on a cheery note by saying, fuck off and die!
The rest of you can stay. I offer you love and stupidity.