I should really get to bed. I find myself staring at the television, willing myself to turn it off. The fan spins overhead, causing the blinds to flutter. Katat. Katat. Katat. The show is beautiful and sad, though I don't know if other people would see it that way. It's funny and cynical and frankly quite pornographic. I'm sure the critics eat it up.
I keep swimming in his eyes, that gorgeous former UFO hunter with his wry smile and leathery voice. Every time I see breasts I think it's so sad for his wife, knowing each scene fueled his sickness. Is she still his wife? I'm not even sure. I could Google it but that just feels like stalking.
I find it extremely unfair that they show so much female skin and I don't get to see more of him.
It's thought-provoking. I feel like I want to write. I want to be Hank Moody, self-deprecating and deep, intelligent and brutal. I don't think there is enough whiskey in the world to make me into that.
I used to write so much. At the time I felt pretty brilliant, but now when I go back and read any of it I feel pissed. Emo is no longer cool.
I should really get to bed. I've watched 4 episodes tonight.
Katat. Katat. Katat.
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