you let me violate you

Subject:	Today is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you.
Time:	4:38 pm.
Music:	Oasis - Wonderwall.

Getty Images, where I usually obtain beautiful pictures for icon making, has decided to heavily watermark their pictures. I do not fucking accept. The alternative would be to buy an account. Honestly, I have a hard time justifying spending eight hundred dollars for pictures.

I've come to the auspicious conclusion that journal entries laden with metaphors, lovely admissions of emotion and anything remotely intellectual, are wasted among blithering idiots who want the latest gossip. I can admit to being a little bitter about it. To be fair, no one has to give a shit about what I say here because I certainly couldn't give two turds in a bucket of feces about anything anyone else has to say. Especially when all anyone has to say about anything is how much they love/adore/respect/hate/are annoyed by/could do without this one or that one.

What it all adds up to, when I finally concede to check my friends page, is bullshit. A heaping, disgusting pile of steaming dung. It's boring, badly written and slightly-if-not extremely unoriginal. What's the point of saying anything at all if it isn't going to incite some kind of impact? If it isn't going to inspire? What will you have accomplished after laboring over sophomoric sentence after sophomoric sentence? Nothing.

And since I've decided to reduce myself to complaining about things that have been bothering me, I've decided to cut my friends list down to individuals at least coherent enough to write a proper sentence. If you've been cut, chances are, you've probably annoyed me with your....nothingness. Either that or I don't like you. Or I don't like your work. Or your icons. Or your layout. Or your name. Or your exaggerated use of underscores in your username. Really, kids. It's a genuine toss-up at this point.

Also: Moderator, dictator, man in the creepy Captain's hat. Add me to after_celebrity already. This is post number four. You're neglecting your duties. Chop, chop.

EDITED TO ADD: I've made three very non-active posts, used AIM all of six times and I find myself mysteriously winning two awards. Hahahaha. You're all fucking sheep. But thank you. My lips are great and I look fucking amazing naked.

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Subject:	Be kind to me or treat me mean, I'll make the most of it I'm an extraordinary machine.
Time:	10:46 am.

I love to argue. Most of my relationships have been nothing more than arguments followed by angry, rushed, head-banging, flesh tearing sex. Some couples need artificial sweetener in their daily dose of love. A little love tap or kiss on the cheek to validate and reassure each other of their feelings for each other. I don't need any of that shit. Nothing says "I love you" more than an early morning brawl about buying the wrong brand of coffee. A useless argument, yes. But a valid one, nonetheless. It serves it's purpose. I get my fuel for the day and a quick romp and toss to tide me over until tickle pickle time.

Cover bands are sweet nectar from the baby Jesus. During off days at whatever location, I find myself weeding through local newspapers, watching for an appealing cover band. There was a time when I'd go wild for a Beatles cover band. A fucked up, distorted version of A Hard Days Night would send my fingers curling into fists and pumping in the air enthusiastically. Now that I'm older, my tastes have matured. It's like going from being a child that believes a fat man in a red suit to be Santa Claus to an adult that knows Santa Claus is the CEO of Master Card. Ho, ho, ho.

My new obsession is a good Queen cover band. Some short man with a freeze dried Jehri-curl doing somersaults in a black sequined jumpsuit singing, "we will, we will ROCK YOU." I lose my head during the opening bars of "We Are The Champions," even when I know the this unknown band can no more touch Queen than David Lee Roth can be a black man singing Gospel spirituals in Georgia.

But this reasonable facsimile, like the arguments and rushed sex I enjoy during the tepid mornings I spend with whomever I'm with at any particular time, serve a purpose. To satisfy and pacify me. To tame that urge to bang my head against the wall in protest of the monotony of every day life. The constant waiting, waiting, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for direction. Waiting for a callback, waiting for a script, waiting for then sun to set one one day and waiting for the sun to rise on another.

My life isn't glamorous or pretty or full of the garbage people read in tabloids. On any given Saturday night when I'm not promoting a film, you can find me parked on my sofa with a bowl of mini-Twix, cackling at old re-runs of Saturday Night Live. Without my moments of self-imposed drama, I'd be just another woman in the middle of quarter-life crisis. And the thought of being one of those 'normal' people is entirely too much to bear.

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