I hate this. I do. Really! That’s why I’m showing you. It’s a bizarre sort of masochism, like every other giving of images. Especially when my own is involved. There’s a tinier two part version on Youtube.
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I see you on me.
I hate that. I love that. I hate and I love that.
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No.
All of the time.
There are no exceptions to your rules.
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Me, at twelve, on my horse Sundance.
Sundance died of spontaneous internal combustion when I was a scientist.
I just finished my art history exam and it went well so I’m smart again. Plus, I got my first major paper back with comments that would be better expressed if I just posted a photograph of me touching myself. I have another big project due tomorrow but it’s a video so I’m already sad for tomorrow night when the potential energy I have now will be flattened onto DVD. Now I’m bundled in bed, even wearing a toque, effectively giving me a perpetual hug. Ahead of me is atleast twenty hours of editing. That’s not an exaggeration.
I am groaning a good groan.
When I edit video in my bed I am a banana in a peel that hasn’t been opened.
Wow, something really epic must have been going on under that hair - that I was born with.
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My brilliant friend Andrew did this. More on him later.
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I hate how secrets feel. It has something to do with where they’re hiding. Specifically, the distance they are from the surface of my skin, giving me awareness where there shouldn’t be but clearly needs to be.
I had so much editing to do tonight but as soon as I looked at my recorded image I realized how ill I look under the sun wearing a bright blue top for a torso blue screen. I couldn’t be with that. I closed the application. Maybe I’ll look different tomorrow. Oh wait, it’s already tomorrow. One eighth into tomorrow.
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Your nuances, your subtle juxtapositions, that’s what makes you brilliant.
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