Sometimes I want to take my face offline. I do sometimes actually. I archive all of my baby photos from 2015. Everyone should be invested in me for ME! Laughing, like my beauty is the lure. Maybe for like three people. Three people I wouldn’t really want to hear about it from.
The scar has confirmed something for me. Something I needed confirmed when I was thirteen.
These messages pop up from guys sometimes. They want things from me. No, not like that. Not. Like. That. They want um,
links?
thoughts?
help? with a potential new project.
It’s worse because these guys don’t even want to fuck me.
I try to stick with the girls…They see the whole thing…Sometimes…
The “thing” escapes me in September, October, and November. I lie and pretend it hasn’t left me. I lie because this was when I had nothing and to lose the “thing” as well would be too much. But it had gone. It came back in my family’s apartment over Christmas. It came back because I shot a final sequence for CAMP with Zola on Super 8, sat with her on the apartment floor watching her talk, and then spent the evening reading The Rabbit Hutch.
Now, everything feels cinematic—especially the bad stuff. I can live in this for a long time. I like to. I am going fucking berserk.
There’s this human understanding—a revelation experienced over and over—that it is not worth it if it is not shared. Well, I want you sitting beside me always, so I think I am starting to get it.
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