in case of disappearing.

The reason (too many reasons) why this whole fucking show deserves endless rounds of applause is because it’s about a couple that is not a couple. I mean, it’s about a man who is entirely defined by women and a woman who defies every definition made by men. But he is perfect only in his weakness and she struggles with her power and they only appear understood between each other. They hiss and spit and finish with a kindness that makes marriage blush. And because the spit and the kindness are executed without sex, because innuendo is absent from these scenes and these scenes only, the show succeeds despite what everything else on the little black box tells you must be taken for granted. I love this. I’m endlessly (repeat season after repeat reason) in love with this. 

Waking up, the song stuck though I don’t think it’s real. I’m googling and I’m finding nothing. My brain has never conjured melody. There isn’t a drop of composition in me. 

I (tried to) read Tropic of Cancer in December, Catholic levels of guilt over having left it untouched for so many years and then a psycho-vomit response over how god damn proud of himself he is; Bukowski-esque energy wasted on an endless physical ego. Did Americans flock to Paris just to admire their own square shoulders? The dirt-bag prowess of Kerouac scumbagging himself to a promising future was a pandemic. But when my blood stops boiling I’m left wondering about the universal urge to start spewing your sexual history to strangers. If you’re bad at fiction, if your imagination ticks too predictably, then do you turn to the most mysterious thing about yourself - the mechanism between your legs?