Roses are red. Violets are blue. I love Spectre.
My god, I started today with the worst hangover and it only got worse from looking at Natalie Portman's icon. I hate when people update about their hangovers but I rarely drink and I have even fewer hangovers so I think I'm allowed. I went back to bed all miserable, trying to feel sorry for myself but the whole scenario was a little too comical, even for me.
I haven't really mentioned this but I suppose I should. I'm so tried of big words and imagery and everything I've been doing lately or forever, I'm not really sure. I have this theory, I think it's a theory anyway, and it is that all artists go through this phase where they want to be brilliant and unique and basically smarter than their audience. And at the top of my head, I can't think of one example where that actually went down without a fight. Nobody likes to feel inferior. Most people won't appreciate art that makes them feel inferior and I would think that applies to all areas; books, poems, movies. Especially movies. Jamie and I spent our teenage years making these artsy black and white things and we thought it was brilliant. Everyone else thought it was crap. And it was, I can say that now. Because we wanted to outsmart our audience and have they marvel at our creative genius. Doesn't work that way. If anything I think I've learned they key to everything is working with your audience. Acknowledge their expectations and assumptions and take it from there. Follow the recipe and be the lemon that adds flavor. While making movies. Obviously. No lecture here. Read whatever you like into it, or nothing at all.
Coyote Ugly is on tonight. I wanted to watch that earlier today. Coincidence is so good to me. Piper Perabo is really cute. But this wasn't what I started to say at all. I've been asking a few selected people a lot of unfair questions lately. About my character mostly. You don't straight up tell people they are insensitive unless it's in the middle of an argument and it's like a given that you're not supposed to take those things seriously. But I ask anyway and they tell me not to be ridiculous and they really are very sweet but it's not a satisfying answer. Because I can see where the accusations are coming from in the first place. I'm not a very good friend. I have a short attention span and I'm too proud to break any sort of ice after a fight unless it's clearly all my fault. I meet new people and I adore them. I gush all over them and everyone else feels set aside. Nothing could be less true. All of that is just on the surface. When you get under my skin and into my heart, you stay there. That's permanent. But I don't really talk about it. You're supposed to know these things. Take me, have me, break me, fall in love with someone else, marry someone else, have a sex change, basically everything. I'd still want you around and nothing else means anything. I realise these are only my unwritten rules and probably dumb. I can't finish this paragraph. I don't know what to say. Do you want to know how much it hurt me to hurt you? Do you want to know how much you hurt me? I'm sorry I couldn't be the person you wanted me to be. I'm sorry you had to stand my company for as long as you did. I don't even know which one of you I'm addressing anymore. I can acknowledge all of the above and if the choice is between hiding or taking the slap, I'll take it and nurse my bruise. It will heal. It heals.
It doesn't really feel right to talk about my weekend after this but I'll try. Jonny went up north with me, to some grey town by the seaside and a small B&B. I think it was my idea, I started dreaming about windy piers and old wooden roller coasters, hot dogs and wool coats and he said he knew just the place. Booked everything before I had the chance to change my mind. I don't know what we are. We're kissing more than we have in a long time. Like actual make out sessions without going further, it makes me feel about fifteen. There's this clumsy awkwardness to us, stolen looks and shy smiles. We got the room and there was a yellow bedspread with roses and I just started laughing hysterically from the awfulness of it, which was really mean because I'm sure it was put there with the best intentions, and he was terrified going "you hate it!" and I sobbingly had to explain it was too wonderful for words. Then came the uncomfortable silence which happens when you don't know what the other person you're sharing a hotel room, in this case a private bedroom with, expects. We decided to deal with that later and fulfill my 50's postcard fantasy date first and we really did. He even bought us hats. Hot chocolate on a bench by the beach and as the sun started disappearing he wrapped me in his jacket and I started to cry. Of course. I'm really good at ruining moments. Back at the room I spent that evening in my pajamas, eating popcorn and watching X-files reruns. They just showed random episodes and I had no idea what was going on. I never got the main plots of this show and I suppose it would bother me if I cared. Did they ever get together? Was there even a romantic interest there and did they really get kidnapped by aliens? First Scully, then Mulder later, right? I have no idea. We went to bed at the same time and he planted a big kiss on my forehead, thanking me for a great day. I don't think I'll ever figure us out. We got back on Sunday and now London seems colder for some reason. It's spring again.
I haven't really mentioned this but I suppose I should. I'm so tried of big words and imagery and everything I've been doing lately or forever, I'm not really sure. I have this theory, I think it's a theory anyway, and it is that all artists go through this phase where they want to be brilliant and unique and basically smarter than their audience. And at the top of my head, I can't think of one example where that actually went down without a fight. Nobody likes to feel inferior. Most people won't appreciate art that makes them feel inferior and I would think that applies to all areas; books, poems, movies. Especially movies. Jamie and I spent our teenage years making these artsy black and white things and we thought it was brilliant. Everyone else thought it was crap. And it was, I can say that now. Because we wanted to outsmart our audience and have they marvel at our creative genius. Doesn't work that way. If anything I think I've learned they key to everything is working with your audience. Acknowledge their expectations and assumptions and take it from there. Follow the recipe and be the lemon that adds flavor. While making movies. Obviously. No lecture here. Read whatever you like into it, or nothing at all.
Coyote Ugly is on tonight. I wanted to watch that earlier today. Coincidence is so good to me. Piper Perabo is really cute. But this wasn't what I started to say at all. I've been asking a few selected people a lot of unfair questions lately. About my character mostly. You don't straight up tell people they are insensitive unless it's in the middle of an argument and it's like a given that you're not supposed to take those things seriously. But I ask anyway and they tell me not to be ridiculous and they really are very sweet but it's not a satisfying answer. Because I can see where the accusations are coming from in the first place. I'm not a very good friend. I have a short attention span and I'm too proud to break any sort of ice after a fight unless it's clearly all my fault. I meet new people and I adore them. I gush all over them and everyone else feels set aside. Nothing could be less true. All of that is just on the surface. When you get under my skin and into my heart, you stay there. That's permanent. But I don't really talk about it. You're supposed to know these things. Take me, have me, break me, fall in love with someone else, marry someone else, have a sex change, basically everything. I'd still want you around and nothing else means anything. I realise these are only my unwritten rules and probably dumb. I can't finish this paragraph. I don't know what to say. Do you want to know how much it hurt me to hurt you? Do you want to know how much you hurt me? I'm sorry I couldn't be the person you wanted me to be. I'm sorry you had to stand my company for as long as you did. I don't even know which one of you I'm addressing anymore. I can acknowledge all of the above and if the choice is between hiding or taking the slap, I'll take it and nurse my bruise. It will heal. It heals.
It doesn't really feel right to talk about my weekend after this but I'll try. Jonny went up north with me, to some grey town by the seaside and a small B&B. I think it was my idea, I started dreaming about windy piers and old wooden roller coasters, hot dogs and wool coats and he said he knew just the place. Booked everything before I had the chance to change my mind. I don't know what we are. We're kissing more than we have in a long time. Like actual make out sessions without going further, it makes me feel about fifteen. There's this clumsy awkwardness to us, stolen looks and shy smiles. We got the room and there was a yellow bedspread with roses and I just started laughing hysterically from the awfulness of it, which was really mean because I'm sure it was put there with the best intentions, and he was terrified going "you hate it!" and I sobbingly had to explain it was too wonderful for words. Then came the uncomfortable silence which happens when you don't know what the other person you're sharing a hotel room, in this case a private bedroom with, expects. We decided to deal with that later and fulfill my 50's postcard fantasy date first and we really did. He even bought us hats. Hot chocolate on a bench by the beach and as the sun started disappearing he wrapped me in his jacket and I started to cry. Of course. I'm really good at ruining moments. Back at the room I spent that evening in my pajamas, eating popcorn and watching X-files reruns. They just showed random episodes and I had no idea what was going on. I never got the main plots of this show and I suppose it would bother me if I cared. Did they ever get together? Was there even a romantic interest there and did they really get kidnapped by aliens? First Scully, then Mulder later, right? I have no idea. We went to bed at the same time and he planted a big kiss on my forehead, thanking me for a great day. I don't think I'll ever figure us out. We got back on Sunday and now London seems colder for some reason. It's spring again.