recently I've become increasingly inspired by the character, JD, and his relationship with Veronica in Heathers.

In a perfect and fucked up world, Heathers is Twilight.

only in my world.


On another note, anyone who has ever seen a Fellini film will be completely disappointed with NINE. The more you lack knowledge of its content, the more you'll enjoy. It's pretty bad when I walk out of the theater and have fucking songs from CHICAGO stuck in my head. Although this film's concept was incredibly ambitious, it did not do justice to that era of Italian cinema.

someday we'll remake it where La Saraghina's number takes place on the actual beach, Claudia falls into the fountain, and fucking Sophia Loren has a presence on film.

until then, the world is still ending.

I am finally starting to live again.

=diet

...my top hat, little top hat, I won't be needing anymore.

horror story. we're trapped in a warehouse split into 9 rooms and they're setting each room on fire, one by one. It's a musical.

I bought my drugs from a jittery, bug-eyed typesetter whose brittle, prematurely white hair was permed in such a way that I couldn't look at her without thinking of a late-season dandelion. Selling me the drugs was no problem, but listening to my increasingly manic thoughts and opinions was far too much for one person to take on a daily basis.
"I'm thinking of parceling off portions of my brain," I once told her. "I'm not talking about having anything surgically removed, I'd just like to divide it into lots and lease it out so that people could say, 'I've got a house in Raleigh, a cottage in Myrtle Beach, and a little hideaway inside a visionary's head.'"
Her bored expression suggested the questionable value of my mental real estate. Speed heats the brain to a full boil, leaving the mouth to function as a fulminating exhaust pipe. I talked until my tongue bled, my jaw gave out, and my throat swelled up in protest.
Hoping to get me off her back, my dealer introduced me to half a dozen hyperactive brainiacs who shared my taste for amphetamines and love of the word MANIFESTO."...

The art world was our conceptual oyster, and we ate it raw.