Bittersweet tastes like sick

God, I hate all this bittersweet drama in movies nowadays.  Not because it's badly done.  Because badly done bittersweet ends up looking something like this:

OH MAN, I'M SO PRETTY, BUT, OH, MY HEART!

Fuck you, Justin Timberlake, nobody thinks you have human feelings.  Celebrities operate in a realm of superhuman emotions, where their problems are exquisite delights for us ugly commoners.

No, what I mean is shit like Crazy Heart and 500 Days of Summer.  The kind of stuff that is specifically engineered to make you feel absolutely miserable.  But it's okay! They're SMILING at the end.  They got absolute fuck-all of what they wanted, but hey, ain't that just the way life is?

No, fuck you, Hollywood, I want the best job, the best family and I want to be the smartest and most talented person in the universe all without putting any real emotional investment or effort into anything.

I'm starting a new genre.  It will be called "Screw you, I get everything".  I will film the protagonist breezing through life with girls throwing themselves at him and Fortune 500 companies chasing after him with lifetime contracts.  Banks will error in his favor, always.  It will never rain on his parties, his outdoor excursions or his parades, because there will be parades, the man will have however many parades he damn well pleases.

Even better, he will never want anything he can't have.
He will take what is given to him, shit-eating grin about it.
When people bump him in the street, he will wonder at how the stranger knew that he wanted to be bumped exactly that way at exactly that time.
When another man steals his girlfriend and fills his harddrive with videos of them having sex, the man will sit and watch every video marveling at how perfect a way this was to fill an afternoon.
When he's fired, he didn't want the job.
When he's bankrupt, he'll think about how unimportant money is.
When he's shivering starving in the street,
He'll smile,
Nod his head,
And say
"This is just what I wanted."
Dramatic music.
Fade to black

I hate movies.

This is why we write

Inner life is one of those things.  A thing that's so all-encompassingly important, yet you can't touch it, you can't taste it and you only see flashes of it in the drawn-out silhouettes of your dreams.

We can measure brain waves.  Oh yes we can.  But it doesn't mean a damn things, it is a paint-by-numbers approximation that, yes, red goes here, sometimes, in the right conditions.  It's not the magnetism of our blood.  It's not the radiation in our veins it is painfully unreal.

I guess what I mean is you can think whatever the fuck you want and it's okay.  Because on the outside, you are still white boy age twenty six smiling surely.  I mean, if you're me.  If you're not me, the overlay might get a bit more problematic.  Our faces are like burqa, honestly.  More than that, because sometimes you can't even see our eyes.

It is 2 AM and I can't sleep, my head like an inflatable mattress, it's never comfortable too full.  I need to open the valve and catharse.  Is that a word? Verb form of catharsis? The internet is no help here and I'll be damned if I turn to the OED.  Bootylicious? Really? I mean, I know no one uses you anymore, but this is not the way to get attention.  It's like the loser kid at school smoking pot to be cool.  Then going on to major in English and History and eventually go to Hopkins.

See what I did there?

Can't let an entry go without insulting myself.

(This inanity brought to you by David Oshinsky, who recommended that everyone write 300 words a day.  Don't worry.  This kind of can-do inspiration usually wears off after a couple days.)