That's fine I guess. I like dancing. I really like dancing. How could you not like dancing? I love dancing. I also love accidently elbowing short people in the face and saying sorry 45 times in one night.
Its a shame that my twin prefers Spotlite because Spotlite makes me... nervous. The people who go there are really good people, they all have salaries and mortgage their houses. These are Dennis Archer's people.
I'm being really mean, I'll stop. Spotlite is good. If I had to go to a club with friends that dont go to clubs, I'd go to Spotlite.
Bleu is NOT good. Its a fake club. Its a front for a Mossad sleeper cell. Im calling it. I do not want a SECTION! I WANT ROOM TO DANCE! I would take a friend to Bleu if we weren't really friends and I kind of wanted to watch them attempt to dance within the centimeter of space they'll have available in a really vindictive, machiavellian way. Or maybe in a psychosexual Blue Velvet sort of way.
Sometimes I think I seem like Frank to my friends, and then my own hand stretches out in front of me and smacks me in the face.
Recently I watched The Young Girls of Rochefort dir. Jacques Demy. Of course the first New Wave movie I watch in 50 billion years is the fruity singalong romance one. 10/10, I loved getting jumpscared by Gene Kelly. The song the twins sing near the beginning is still in my head even though I don't really understand any of the words. I wish French People were real. It's a real shame, you know... French people stopped existing after the exchange students from WAYN escaped the cesspool called "America" to return to the bed-bug cuddling, cigarette nursing promised land in the sky.
That makes it sound like they died. They didn't die, they just moved back to public arts funding and loose consonants.
I am not Superman, unfortunately. I am just Gabriel.
I had such a fun little conversation with Remas last week, my heart is so full of hope and love. Which is a shame, because I took a pretty nasty financial hit. I had to pay the wifi bill for my family, you know. They hit the Pentagon. Now I gotta wait another week before I can call the leasing people.
My coworkers are so fun! Its been a while since I've actually enjoyed my job. Not once have I thought about calling in a bomb threat.
This post is not as well written as my sad ones, but I have decided that I don't care. Writing is not part of my skillset anymore, I am no longer concerning myself with keeping up the appearance of being a writer. I'm not a writer! I don't have to be one. This is good.
I almost want to start working on my next project since I've already got down all the concepts, sounds, methods, visual design language, ideas, etc. I need to put them together in a production bible.
The thing about Hepburn is that it needs to be influenced by the right kind of filth. I'm trying to see about some burlesque, some strip clubs. I gotta see about finding some erotica. I also gotta see about putting myself on the street, but where? Detroit isn't a gigolo city. But I'm trans though, right? I think there's a different term for it. I'm thinking about putting myself in danger a bit. It's a really milquetoast, unserious thing to want or look for. Not something that somebody with a life of safety and promise should ever look forward to.
So I think maybe Hepburn isn't for me? I dunno. It's an idea I want to see come alive. Maybe...
I'll have to start shaving my legs 🫩🫩 I don't wanna do that. But I will. Because I need to give myself the acid bath of sexual validation. Arms are one thing but...
Oh well. I guess it's easier to be candid if you don't fear the watchmen. I'm thinking about that clip of Jason Alexander in Seinfeld, where he says something like...
"I cannot envision a situation where I will ever have sex again.
How's it gonna happen?"
Like God that's such a defeatist mindset, but also, like.
Yeah. I'm rooting for my hormones, y'know? At 3 years in, I might even be tolerable. But right now, we're only a year and a half in this shit. We just gotta do it all again.
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