3/13/09
Friday the 13th. Am I actually trying to write a journal entry, on paper, like an angsty teenager after about 12 years?
My spelling has considerably worsened since the 1990s. My penmanship betrays the notion that I am a civilized and productive human being.
In typical L.A. fashion, a guy is reading a script beside me.
Another guy left a candid voice mail last night, glorifying my sexual desirability and creating a happy trajectory with his ample and eager seed. He's in love with my now coined phrase, "weave the best verbal smut." He called me a mind fuck. He would like to fuck my hippocampus. My left and right lobe of my cerebral cortex. He means nothing to me, but I crave his desire like a life elixir to my ravenous, vampiric hunger. A vague liveliness. Perhaps the only way I can be desired.
I am tempted to show the screenwriter/editor(?) guy what I have just written.
Why am I always so heartbreakenly disappointed when strangers (men) fail to see my cowardly, but potent yearning to be touched? Moved? Fucked? Shattered? I want them to ravage and plunder me upon sight.
I wish I could read minds.
Fantasize about me, please.
Like I do you.
No comments:
Post a Comment