Watch Me Baby!

It's a game. A race to deliver to the finish.

Victims? Oh, yeah. There are victims.

Butchers? Yup, definitely not for the squeamish.

With body parts scattered along the way. Rape kits covered in dust.

The NYPD, SVU, FBI and Ryan Hardy are on it.

But how many more?

How many more women have to lay victim for the cutting room floor? 

It's getting old. Read old.

I feel sorry for the girls waiting by the phone, hoping with fingers crossed to be Dead Girl #5, Rape Victim 1 or Whore in Red Dress at the end of the day.

Must violence breed entertainment?

I used to enjoy shows like Criminal Minds, but then it got bad a few seasons back, and now it's just too violent. The Following seemed okay, but again, too violent. Just violence.

Perhaps entertainment is just catching up with this world and its fall in humanity. Where people just kill one another for sport, for fun, in a spark of anger. Where the thought or belief in a just God doesn't enter the mind once.

Or perhaps the vice that many share, the need for constant stimuli should aid in helping shift the violent glare with shows that dare to show (I'll say it) love and care for humanity, minus the brutal slaying. Unless it's Buffy (Sarah Michelle Gellar) kicking some Edward Cullen ass - I want something different.

How about The Love Boat. Fantasy Island. The Cosby Show. Night Court. Life Goes On.

I don't know...?

And it's not just violence. It's the over-sexualizing of women and men, teenagers and kids.

Do we need a re-education in humanity, innocence and civility? Cause it's just getting so bad out there.

I grew up in the 80s & 90s where TV shows weren't only about sex and slaying. There were options. You had Family Ties or Miami Vice.

Now there are none. What's going to happen to the innocent eyes of today when they grow up tomorrow?

They've never been given an option. 

An Off Day

I was an angry bird today. Snapping the fingers off many. They bit me. I bit back. I'm usually not one to bite in return. I usually don't address it.

I think it's the hunger. The hunger for what I once knew. What I've been away from. I hear it calling now and then. Like a once beloved friend calling my name. I miss their company.

My writing is...it's like a puzzle right now. All the pieces are there, but the main picture is getting fuzzy. I need to reconsider Gabe's motivation.

It's distressing. Money, it comes and goes. The boys, they come but I want them to go. The men...think I'm jailbait. The ones that desire jailbait, they lose interest fast after swapping words with me. I know how to say "no" and mean it. I may act dim, for fun, cause being serious can feel stuffy, but it's an act.

But not having time to write, and working in a space that kills any creative buzz - it's a slow death. It sucks that there's no one to talk to about the craft. Like, someone that will help you tear a part what's not working. Someone who wants to.

I miss my friends that have gone away. When a mess, a baby, a plane ride or marriage get in the way - friends split. More time to self investigate your inner mess and deny obvious flaws. Medicate with sugar and coffee. Do a good deed to cancel all the wrong. Am I alone here?

Thank God today's almost over.

It's just...

I think there's something off...with me.

I'm reverting back to my childhood these days, refusing to grasp adulthood, whatever that means.

I don't have a filter. No edit point. It is what it is. Zero pretending.

I feel sixteen - caught in a stage of wonder, just waiting for everything to make sense. I don't think it will ever make sense: Life.

I don't mean to flirt with you: man, woman, dog, squirrel, uptight fella who never smiles. I just do. Teasing is fun.

I still believe in that dream, the one I had  8 years ago. That man in black, walking in fields of milky snow. That man who searches for me as much as I search for him...Uh, yeah, I'm here by the way. Hurry up!

Short men frighten me. Angry people turn me off. Yet I seem to attract both, like moths to light. Perhaps if I turn my flirtatious laughter to that of a hellish cry, walking on ten foot stilts, I will attract a worthwhile catch...I'll mull it over.

I think I do have a type. Never thought I did. Hmm...

I never make a promise I won't keep. I take secrets to the grave. I want you to be happy and I'll always have your back. I think you outta know this.

I want to try a smoke, just once, but I'm afraid I'll like it too much. But I'm also allergic.

I don't know if I have an addictive personality. It's possible. I'm stubborn as hell and won't believe anything you tell me. I drink coffee three times a day...Am I addicted to caffeine?

I sometimes fear that man in black is dead, or just tired of looking for me. Like me, tired of the journey.

I want to be gotten.

Broken

Trust.

When it's gone, it's gone forever.
Words have weight, not one syllable light. Never A vowel silent.
Careful who you share your words to.
Some hearts can think of no one else.

The chit-chat, gossip, the undone ramble.
Nerves gone affray, nothing to hold onto.
Intent driven by fear. The need to be wanted. Needed.
Forgive and move on. Learn and move forward.

Broken telephone line. Broken truth.
Childish lips drip, dripping on.
The he said, she said, they said script.
Written by someone untrue. But what's true?

Again, learn and move on. Don't harden your heart.
Pebbles, the mistake, the knots. The dirt.
Truth will unravel in perfect time. Trust that.
Stay sweet, stay you. Don't look back.

Look back to learn, if only that.
People are messy, faults spilling over.
Perfection is perfect only in its spelling.
Again, another word to fight.

When liars sleep, they sleep well.
But their heart thumps fast, afraid of you.
Few will come clean. The adult yet to bloom.
Don't be mean, they just don't know.



Never prove what you already know.

RAGE

And in a pit of rage you wait. Beneath a constant cloud of black. No picture of sun to lead the way. You wait.

Cold wind leaves marks across my face, reminding me of this life that is dang-stank hard, lonely, and damn challenging when you have passion.

Voices pitch and wail, a few hundred smiles change hands, it's another day in sales, and my bones are ever slowly withering away to dust. There is no loyalty - this great big sea is filled with sharks. Even the guppies will claw a mighty bite.

The pavement calls. Miles of it. Seducing to be walked upon. An affair I miss deeply, especially when the weather begins to frost over. Cafes are the best places to hide when it's cold. Bury in a stash of words. Forget troubles.

The men are plenty, but still none hold my gaze. A few passing slow smiles. A few "get to know you" questions. "Yeah, the Peppers rock." "I'd like to write obits." "What's your name?" A subtle wink and half-curled smile.

Ease down, hun. You look like you just graduated - High school.

The end seems long yet not far behind, catching up close, like a speeding train. Another year passes, the faster the speed increases. Where did the year go? 2012 was a mess yet enlightening: I never want to live in LA.

I have much to do today.

The Quiet Pull

You know when happens. You can catch the exact moment it does. The silent connection that flows from one end of the room to the other.

What causes it? That magnetic pull. When two eyes out of a sea of many meet for a long pause. A duration where even the noisiest of rooms grows silent. When you're not aware of anything or anyone else.

Words aren't necessary. Words could muddy the magic.

Sometimes words are okay, like, if the person in question is bold enough to walk across the room and say, "Hi, I'm...(blank)."

That happened once. He was bold, ballsy, enough.

Another longish pause as our hands clasped for a shake.

I was at work. He was at work. It wasn't the greatest time to chat one another up. I leaned to the side to get a better look as he walked away. We were going live in a matter of minutes, so yeah - bad timing.

But that magnetic pull...it's something "magical" isn't it? I feel silly calling it Magic. But it is. Cause it happens, like almost never. At least for me.

There are attractive men all across Toronto. But very few hold my gaze. It's that silent pull that leaves me speechless, where uttering a single word feels like a daunting feat. Me, a shameless flirt, dead for words.

So what is it? The pull. The silent draw... destiny? Where two souls are bound to cross paths? Meant to cross paths? And what if nothing comes from it but just those long seconds of silence. Is it to be left for another time?

Timber - You Hear Me?

And in this land of trees. Trees of all sorts: Tall trees, small trees, prickly trees, well-rooted trees, and hollow trees; we all fit in the mix somewhere.

I made the grave mistake of giving my number to a fella (I was at work). This is what history will note as a bookmark: Never to repeat, at least when passing a number so casually as I did. I never give my digits out. I must have been very tired that day.

So, he texts me some obscure dittie. Not saying anything valid, but in is mind it may have meant the world and sounded very profound. It wasn't. I write, I understand words, I get why people use them.

I didn't answer the text.

A day...? Passes by. I think nothing of it. It doesn't even register as a second, third, twentieth thought.

Remember. The text said nothing valid, no question. It read more as a statement. I literally shrugged when I read it.

So today rolls around, still rolling, and in walks the same guy. He asked me if I got his text?

Seriously?

He keeps asking, follows me as I'm walking. I replied, "no".

I'm at work. Don't bother me. Don't ever corner me. And never demand anything, especially when we are strangers. He told me to text him back.

I nodded. I walked away. I'm working. I don't have time to chit chat and make small talk, which I hate doing. I don't like 'fake' talk of any kind. It's either an honest conversation or no conversation.

He texted back. I haven't read it.

Aggression and demands are uncool and just freakin' insane when you don't know the person, and just the same when you do. 

Timber.

Never Shed You

People often mistake me for someone who is much younger. Much much younger. I think I mentioned this before...

How much?

Let's just say I often attract 17-21 year old boys. A fact that causes me to shudder, stutter, and reel back in physical pain. I sometimes second guess everything I know about myself, left in a helpless wonder.

It's hard enough to meet boys, MEN my own age, let along pretend the ones that do admire from afar, or the ones that do gawk up close, or the more silly ones that spew poetic words trying to reel in a cheap catch, don't exist.

It's just the right one I don't see yet.


But back to looking younger-

The fountain of youth has been ever kind to me. I think it's in every fibre of me, to tell you the truth. My sister often asks me when I'm going to dress my age - I don't know what she means? My mother constantly hopes I'll wear flowery dresses and conform to the staples of a prude librarian. We have very different taste.

When I'm alive, it's my body. When I'm dead - go to town.

I just came back from seeing John Taylor at a book reading. A book about his life in three parts. It was so awesome to see him: so happy, so content. He made me smile, just him being there, seeing him well and full of life.

There are some people who will always be a part of your life, no matter what. Sometimes they don't even know it, and I don't mean in a psycho, stalker sort of way, which I have also experienced and would never wish on anyone. But in a way where there's much respect and admiration/adoration. Adoring someone is a nice feeling.

I've adored few people in my life, and those people never change.

Now back to shedding-

And when I am grey and old. A time when I will no longer admit a birthday has passed. Bestowed in bland conservative slacks and a proper blouse to cover my naked frame. I will be dead.

But before this tragic day should arrive, I will continue to wear my fav rock shirts. I will listen to music loud and skip around the city in busted chucks. I will flirt and laugh with strangers, which I do just cause it comes naturally. I will enjoy my cupcakes and dream, and continue to write scripts that will one day be noticed. And lastly, I will continue to be my undying self, cause myself is something that has no monetary value. I will never be bought.


Never shed.

Food Sucked. Long Tracks

Nothing is more tragic than when food tastes bad.
Nothing hurts more than tired feet after a hard day.

My script is in the hands of a manager. The sixth written thus far. I'm ready to write the next one, but confused as hell about where my life is right now. I know but I don't know. It sucks to feel this way.

I'm exhausted, so exhausted that I can't make simple decisions. I have no strength for reason, which may not be such a bad thing. Too much thinking is also exhausting.

A Question I'm grappling with right now: Should I try ADing? Many ADs have already asked if I'm in the union.

A part of me feels too old. Crazy, right? My body can't keep up with a 14+ hour day, yet I have no idea what else to do, no where else to go. A tragic circumstance that seems to follow my path in becoming a paid screenwriter.

I refuse to settle into anything that will hinder my writing. My own stubbornness freaks me out some days. My parents are very proud (putting up with me).

side note: Working along side someone with false pride, someone who reacts to fear like a firecracker, spilling out a gross bravado makes the day long. Just breathe. 

half a side note: Men and women aren't equal, not in every circumstance. The fact that I even have to answer this tells me how dim the light is.

When will something break? When will it all be worth it? When will the dry, parched ground drink the dew of what was promised long ago? A prayer raised long ago.

My patience, in this time of stubborn wait, has cemented deep roots. Though storms toss with fury, the trunk will never be breached.

side note: It's surprising how some men will speak, blurting out pea-sized thoughts. Their gauge and gaze totally off the mark. I look young for my age, a damn double-edged sword, so don't speak down to me like I'm a kid.

I have to follow-up with the manager. I'm scared as hell to do it. Scared to hear, "Oh, yeah. Sorry, it wasn't for us."

I should suck it up. Just hit send. But I'll give it a few more days. I know how many scripts managers have to peel though. I'd be sick to my stomach at the amounts they read. I just hope mine is worth the read.

So, that's been my life since Los Angeles. Working on a set, long hours, bad food - doing my wee part to keep the machine going.

I'm gonna give it a few days. Decide on the AD thing. I need to make moolah, and I'd rather AD than be an L.S.P. - my nails can't take it anymore.

Day 26 - Flabby Fibs

Toronto is a city where almost anything goes. Tall, small, thick, thin, rockers, hipsters, what have you.

Perhaps the same is true in LA. Perhaps: The land of lanky palm trees.

But are people (women) expected to follow a certain unattainable standard without some form of sacrifice. Food being such a sacrifice.

I'm not a size two. I range between a size 4-7 pending the label. But even within such limits, eyebrows (in LA) cock to the sky. Yeah, my ass is J-Lo'ish, which makes finding jeans a challenge. Many cuts are geared towards pre-pubescent boys.

In the 90s, the standard Supermodel size was 6. My how we've botched the size curve.

In LA people sneer, even putting down their own kin. Even putting down themselves while swimming in their size 4 frame.

"Too fat. Too thick. She'll never find anyone. Who would marry her? Who would marry me?"

I'm not used to such talk.

Where did such truths begin? It's a BIG FAT LIE!!!

The quality of a person has little to do with the measure of their waistline. A waste of truth sold to the flabby size 4, sick to the stomach, an empty stomach, wishing to be double 00.

My parents could have remained in LA, back when I was a wee palm tree in the making. But they opted for Canada - Land of the free to think and be whatever the heck you want without someone pushing a size standard down your throat.

Thank goodness for that.

I could've been like so many, weighted beneath the shame of curves and having a booty women pay/pray for.

There's this messed up show, a mirror-mimic of Jersey Shore. Instead of Italians, it's Koreans. I can't tell you how many Koreans are reeling. Many refuse to give it attention.

It's only avail on Youtube.

So, in Ep. 2, there's this lame, drink tossing, fight between two girls. Two thin girls. Thin girl #1, a double 00, says to Thin girl #2, "Why are you fat? Asian girls are supposed to be thin/skinny" something crazy like that.

So breeds the flabby insanity.