Dinosaur With Headphones

I really only have two projects that are near-future projects that I care about. The first is a story that blends pornography with literature, because I've been so pissed off about all the attention 50 Shades Of Grey has received, and I think pornography can (once in a great while) be true art (you can ask me if you're interested but the shortlist is Eyes Wide Shut, Blue Movie and Boogie Nights). 50 Shades Of Grey was so poorly written that it's offensive to me as a lover of language and literature. So I want to write this short story about mosquitos and about a time I came on a woman's face and she loved the mosquito bites because they reminded her of our pleasure. I will finish writing it soon and it will probably be the end of this blog.

The other piece is something I just thought up today. Lately, I've been obsessed with the art of Mark Duplass. He made this short film called "This Is John" (before he became famous) and it's about anxiety and unacceptance of one's own self. I want to shoot a short film about my anxiety, my inability to communicate properly and this tendency I have towards panic attacks.

The story will most likely be better than the short film. But I've already pretty much decided that once I post the story it'll be my last or penultimate post. I don't want any of my very few readers to be surprised when this blog ends. I think this blog has run its course. It has basically been an excuse for me to talk to S without actually talking to S and I can't do that/this anymore. If she doesn't want to or can't talk then she won't or can't. It isn't fair that she can feel "close to me" and I don't get to feel anything. Not that I mind fairness. I know life isn't about fairness, it's about circumstance. S is gone and R is gone and C is the victor. The blog will die but my heart will pound forever for S and R.

Yeah, it's corny bullshit blah blah blah.

But at least hopefully in its death I get a good short story and a half-decent short film. I want to write myself truly and film myself truly once before I hang up my boots, as they say in soccer. Cause once I give up this one-way "dialogue" with a woman who no longer speaks to me,  I know I will have very little else to say to this world.

That's not her fault or her problem, it is solely mine. I knew and I said that if this one wouldn't work out I wouldn't be okay, but, like the ancient song says, "I just wasn't made for these times."

I wish that at the end of my life I could say that I never hurt anyone. But none of us will ever be able to say that will we.

My only other wish is that I could have been a better and bigger part of S's life. R's too.

I've questioned everyone and everything that's ever happened to me, I've just never questioned S. With that smile she has, how could I?

I'll never forget the look of pure bliss of S and R laying together in a hotel bed. It might be the happiest image I've ever seen. The teddy bear was a temporary addition, just like me.