to hell

ask yourself: is there anything more profoundly sad than checking Misanthropy Central on Christmas day?

watched my screener of Benjamin Button on xmas eve. just to have seen it a little before the public. the horrible, horrible public.

haven't watched many movies lately. any hint of romance is a rusty blade wrenched in the gutty-wutts. the mildest representation of affection is a slap in the face. a kiss. hands held. just fucking kill me.

the war with myself is a cold one. heart & mind. mutually assured destruction.

24 hours of A Christmas Story...

father:
did you get everything you want?

ralphie:
yeah... almost.

father:
"almost", huh?
(wistfully)
yeah... that's life.
(encouraging)
well, there's always next christmas...

ralphie, appropriately, is not consoled by this. the future is little consolation. getting what you want next christmas is not a consoling thought.

getting what you want precisely when you most want/need it. that means the world. it makes all the difference in the world.

and then, of course, ralphie ends up getting what he wants for christmas. what he's been pining for the entire length of the movie:

A GUN.

i could use a gun right now...

"Oh, there goes Malice being Malice again! THAT'S SO MALICE! Play us the hits, Malice!"

i could use some peace. a sustained sense of peace.

no one to talk to without a co-pay. i am profoundly alone.