I am so sorry for everything i am, and even more so for Everthing i`m not. IF there's anything i can be proud of, i try. sometimes too late. mostly too late, and then we get the early mornings of silence and forgotten ramen bowls. I am ready to leave Calgary again. I spent 4 months falling in love with nothing. I spent 4 months learning how to gamble and how to speak in glances with my father. I spent 4 months waiting for something to happen. Nothing happens here, nothing happens there either. We are all fragments and little bits and when the light hits a particular way, We become golden, but when the light hits off, we lay sullen and grey and I have forgotten all the honest conversations ive had with honest people. Sometimes i feel like there are no parts of me left for myself. I am terrified i have nothing left to share. I thought I could start in Montreal witha blank slate, but that is faulty reasoning. I took a full year to slowly erase every little bit of myself that i still recognize. I think I'm nearly all gone now.
home is the place to grow the fuck up. the problem. we are always back to the grind. i am incapable of falling in love. anywhere. everywhere. i dont know if im ready to try again if this is trying. you wont love me because life has already fucked you over once and you have little time left to spare. maybe im not worth sparing. why wont you let me leave you and hurt you and makeout with you in server rooms. i am tired of joking about arson. i am ready for the real thing.
i think about montreal and its endless nights, the dawns where you can creep back home feeling okay and oddly flattered by the homeless poplation that decides to hoot as you walk by. i am aching for aching legs. and its too late, when i realize how much im lying and how little i realize it still. i look forward to elsewhere because i can never seem to make it in the present. the present isnt friendly to me and ive used up all excuses. i dont wish to be god so i have no idea why i am constantly confronted as if i was. a little faith out side a latino church last sunday with sue would be a good remedy. i dont wish for ignorance, i wish for complacency, i wish for sexy lines outside a club instead of the wretching taste of vomit, i wish for fast blinking instead of exhaustion sleep. how do i make this better if i'm on a loop pedal. i have yet to learn to ride a bicycle and thsi terrifies me.
got me self a tumblr need to start and finish my ling assignement. need to sleep fucking hate rez. fucking hate st. patricks day hotboxed my closet cantwait till this weekend and shooting film in old montreal with priya bed now. tumblr is "gay". tell me what you think.
everyone wants to be a bond girl, mix up with some dangerous folk, fuck a Michael Westin. why is that? chuck klosterman covered the spectrum of fake love, measuring up to the fictional, losing not only to a character but the screenplay writer responsible for the quote. Ive been watching Burn Notice lately, really not bad. Nice Pierrot le fou parallels if the Ferdinand and Marianne were intelligent and spy-worthy. they were ofcourse not, and probably couldnt sustain a 11 episode first season. Gabrielle Anwar would be Godard's wetdream, shes a leathery anna karina, smaller eyes, cuter nose. Jeffrey Donavan's character a little rougher but definitely a zoom-in for me, personally. I tend to like them not as pretty-boy'd. McGayver-esque reminds me of Nickell, sensational back. Whats really interesting is their dynamic. now this is good. the reverse chase, the stoic 'i cants' from a man obsessing over his burn notice, the knocked out 'fi', nicknames are a curious thing, here its the best of its kind. Even past a mr. and mrs. smith level its all kinds of hot. I like how she chases, i like the uncovered story about love at first war zone, i like how he says no, i like how she never stops, i like how they sleep facing different directions. real relationships arent like this. thats precisely why this is so much better. i mean, the sexiest scene between the two actually occurs in the process of bomb making. ceran wrap some c-41 dynomite with lip biting. god fi, youre breaking my heart.
on to michael. this isnt prison break; this michael doesnt brood with fairy blue eyes and actually taps that ass once in a while. the main critique's been the narration style of the show, smug some say. fuck, what is hotter than Smug? Please tell me about the pillars of survaillence. pretty please scold me on making a cellphone bomb. i think weve moved on to a side of television where humor is dry to a point where it isnt humor anymore. thats not the intent. the intent is gunpowder and fun. the grown up james franco look is a plus. the blueberry yogurt red herring is cute. the 'not giving in to fi' is absolutely scorching. by jove, theyve cracked the code, somewhere behind the brains of the operation is a woman staff writer into powerplay sex. thats always how that starts. men like this dont get made, dont get taught, dont have any ambition to be great anymore. fucking settlers all of them.
oh, something else. the chin. that jaw. your jaw single-handed changed the way i think about all jaws. damn.
just finished my linguistics midterm, its all uppity and sleet storms. its warm today though the snow might throw you off. Montreal might not have the most comforting skies, but the blue is unbeatable. its glows through the grime. its a Xiu Xiu song. its trudge trudge trudge till you break through some how and catch your breath. 2 days in a psych ward and im ready to book to ottawa for another hideaway. March is a folklore militant American Lit midterm, leadership seminars, and apartment hunting. I dont Strive to be a douglas coupland character, sometimes its just the way the chips fall (well, maybe a little)
