I want my life to be a movie
There’s an unnamed feeling I’m addicted to but maybe it’s just disassociation. You know, that mix of loneliness and despair and euphoria that arises when you walk around a new city? It’s that perfect balance of hope and naivety, a high that you can’t buy but might try to achieve with a glass of bubbly.
My winter depression is gone but something else is emerging. It’s not nostalgia or mania but I like those feelings too. Last week, I felt ecstatic at a store opening. My life is a CW series or at least the branded activations I get invited to feel like it. “Parker Posey is next to you,” I whisper to my husband. “This place is so Hunger Games and I love it.”
On Tuesday, JT told me about getting drunk in Mexico and for a second I was friends with a celebrity. On Wednesday, David Blaine hypnotised me and for a second I was [REDACTED]. This isn’t my reality but I’m not convinced I have one. I’d like to tell more stories but I can’t find the time. I’d like to make a movie but I can’t find the money. I’d like to talk about things that are going on in the world but I’m too much of a pussy.
“What’s the point?” A friend asked me over lunch. I guess just to keep on living.
Last night I watched Single White Female for the first time. “You have the haircut from the movie,” a friend informed me. I didn’t know but now it’s on the mood board—not the haircut but the extremely disconnected life in a big city. Fashion tech and frumpy fits tailored to perfection. A bad boyfriend and a gay bestie. A female on female psychosexual fantasy.
Every time I blog I have a new look. This time I want to stop hiding behind clothes and blend into them instead. I want to dye my hair "natural" and get rid of anything that hugs my body too tightly. I want to do the demure secretary thing. I want to be dressed by a perverted old director. I want to look like Nastassja Kinski. My style is always changing because I want my life to be a movie.