Problematic

The problem, as I see it, with fathers, is that they are very hard to shop for. In my family all affection is expressed through our, admittedly limited, pocket books. As such, I worry that at some point my father will feel I loved him less, when in reality I just never knew him. I love him as much as one can love a quiet stranger who wields a great deal of responsibility in one's life, but I am certain he will die having served mostly as a silent buffer for the decades long unmanaged mental illness of my mother. It's a foreseeable regret that I haven't the tools to derail. I'm not a daddy's girl. I'm not an anybody's girl, really. Still, every birthday and every holiday I engage in the futility of searching for the perfect gift. I wrack my brain for something meaningful, for a memory, for a feeling. I struggle toward the inevitability of buying socks hoping to climb out of this thoughtless routine. I yearn for something, anything, that might say "I se

I've been watching The Runaways, and it's not as good as The Gifted, but it's still a fun time. It features an English kid pretending to be American, which is always fun. I like to be surprised to find someone is able to pull off an accent. I am personally terrible at them. I think my Russian comes off a little Ukrainian, my French is spectacularly exaggerated, I can't do Spanish at all, and my Indian is just offensive. I feel like I haven't seen James Marsters since we were both 60lbs lighter, and my loss of affection for him parallels my self-loathing. Beyond Marsters, though, the cast of kids is pretty diverse - they are majority female and majority minority. It's been a marvel to witness this sea change, though in my younger days I hardly noticed the discrepancy. I have washed for the holidays and I found myself drawn to Cheri- a movie I had forgotten I had seen before. I do not regret this rare occasion of rewatching a film that's not "She's

I finished The Beautiful Lie- and now I hate Australians. Vronsky cheats on Anna. For a few minutes I was inconsolable. I think I loved his love for Anna more than I have ever loved anything in my life, and I was devastated by an interpretation in which that love was jeopardized. A world where that love is broken. So I hate Australians because it was an Australian adaptation. It was very good up until that point. The fake Vronksy was very handsome, although a career as a music producer was a little lame and not nearly as competitive as the original plan of climbing to military prestige. But he was handsome, in a pouty gaunt way- in skinny jeans and jean jackets over hoodies with shoulder length hair and a warm smile. I realized in watching the show that I would like to be an actress. I'd like to fall in love over and over again on my own terms. Knowing that the emotions were fake, that it would all end, that I could pick the story to some extent. Maybe I'll take some acti

It's finally getting cold but the trees get no rest. It's still so green. This part of the world has changed and their dead season is ending. They'll have to live year round like the rest of us. I've burnt a hole in my hair again, with my fingers. When I touch myself it always seems to cause damage. I've begun watching The Beautiful Lie. It's a modern adaptation of Anna Karenina, and I realize...I am obsessed with Anna Karenina. I have always loved it. I have always loved her. And I can only hope to live so extraordinarily tragically. So far I have lived tragically, but nothing about it has been extraordinary. Nothing about it has been passionate. Nothing has been loving. I might even settle for the secure and unrequited love of Kitty, but I just want to get hit by a train. I like to pet The Kitten's paw right after she cleans it. I like, in small ways, to disrupt her quiet and carefree life. Mostly, because I am jealous. I restarted my Netflix