My Itch

The days have been hot. Unbearable. The sun beating down, cooking me inside out.

Nonetheless, I made it a point to leave my house, however high the heat was said to crank. I've been putting it off for too long: Writing.

My brain has been in turmoil over this. I felt like this massive fraud, to myself and to others when people would ask what I do.

side note: It's f**king crazy how much gull, or perhaps lack of etiquette, some people have when they first meet you. The conversation can turn down a road where you suddenly wish to jump off this fast moving train that's about to crash.

I've often been asked, "So, what do you do?" which is cool, normal. "I write, scripts mainly," I reply, cause it's true. It's what I do. "Wow, that's so cool. Like for movies?" they perk up. "Yeah." I nod, trying to keep it short, cause sometimes after this it can get weird, like Entertainment Tonight weird. I write cause I love to write, not to meet Tom Cruise. "So, that brings you money?" they prod on. "Well, not yet, but I hope to make a living from it some day. I'm trying to get better with each script." I answer, knowing where this dull stroll is going. "But how do you make a living? How much do you make? Where do you live?" they keep poking me with the ugly stick, cause yeah, we've just met, like a minute ago, let me also share with you the first time a boy broke my heart and the first time I got my period. "I work on sets, when opportunities comes up, work part-time here and there," I answer thinly, cause you've totally turned me off as a human being. "And you can survive on that?" they continue.

Like I've mentioned before. Passion sucks. Having a passion for something, something that's close to your heart is the most full-filling yet gut-wrenching thing ever!

But back to being in turmoil-

It's been a while since I sat my ass down and wrote something. My mind has been clogged, fuzzy as f**k. I couldn't snap out of it. I thought I was done in, that my love for story and writing would never return. I was lost in f**king Wanderland, wandering like a ghost, grasping nothing, cause everything would slip past my fingers, like water.

Knock on wood, I think things are changing. Finally! The tide I knew well, once before, is starting to crawl back to shore. My brain is thawed, my fingers agile, my ears seduced by the clacking sound of the keyboard, my Starbucks card on constant reload.

Side note: Even after five cups of coffee, when my head hits the pillow, I'm out.

I'm adapting a script from a novel I wrote years ago hoping one day it would be adapted into a script. I had some interest from agents in NY, but I was too yellow, too young, the time wasn't right, I wasn't hungry enough, who knows? I'm hoping the re-structure finds it news legs.

But I shouldn't say more. I feel like I've said too much. I don't want to spoil it.

Pimp that Bitch

At first it's a pleasing sight. I can understand the allure.

Supple, clean, flawless skin. Doe eyes hinting a longing pause. Eyes that seem to be looking right into you. Eyes that know your every thought, understand your deepest desire. Eyes that easily keep you company when the day falls into a lull and silence surrounds.

You've seen her many times. Perhaps not walking through your neighbourhood, but more likely across the screen. Across the page. Across your bedroom wall, it's most likely been there since you were a wee lad. An often milestone step from when a boy ambles and then begins to strut, walking down the same path as the many men before them. It's okay. It's normal. 

And as the gaze drops, following the soft line of her leg, the nape of her neck and her touchable, damp skin. The breath grows short. Cause she's not only half-naked, she also sometimes wet, as if she escaped from a sudden storm. She's smiling, laughing even, and very agreeable. And she wants to give you what you've been waiting for...

And it's one Big Fat Lie.

It makes me think, "Why?"  Why is this still going on and acceptable? Why are these women falling down to such pressures? Why the need to bare so much?

I get that celebrities need publicity. That actors like Kunis, Jolie, Alba and a slew of others need to promote a film, but if the merit of acting is on the line when such films are released to the public for entertainment as well as criticism, then why the need to sell it with SEX? Why the lingerie, satin sheets and bedroom eyes?

And why don't their more hung peers join in the skinsation? Why isn't Clooney, Gosling, Cooper and others parading in next to nothing, rolled up in satin sheets, laced in speedos, and oiled like a Sunday salad.

That's what irks me.   

If the boys were just as unclad as the girls, I would have nothing to say. If the boys gave multiple wanton gazes, I'd laugh and flip the page to the next nearly naked hunk and read about what childhood memory they're most fond of.

I just wish the manner in which women are portrayed isn't one where it feels like there is a Master and there is a Slave. This point mostly refers to the Blurred Lines video. Or any music visual where the men are properly clothed and the woman is in her bra and underwear.

Why have we become so comfortable with this image? What message are we truly feeding ourselves?