I watched the last bit of American Beauty tonight. I'd seen the beginning last year some time, and lost interest.

I am of the mind that life is full of emotional turmoil already, so why the hell would you want to watch it on tv?

Anyway. I do try to make a point of seeing movies that are particularly noted during the Oscars, and I figured it was about time I saw the end of American Beauty.

It was good. I can see why it did so well.

Will I watch it again, to actually see the middle part?

No.

Why?

Because of what I said about life having enough turmoil as it is.

I like my entertainment to be light and fluffy, with happy endings and clever twists. I want my entertainment to leave me feeling better than I did before I watched it.

But one point kind of lodged in my head, and it should be no surprise which part: when the dark haired girl and the blond one are having a fight near the end, and the boy calls the blond one ugly and boring and ordinary. (I know, I'm really good with character names.)

It made me wonder what it would be like to be normal.

It make me wonder if I'm normal and I never even noticed.

But then...I suspect I am not, because people don't sit next to me on the train, even when there's no other seats.

I swear I don't bite! I don't smell, either, of anything if I can help it.

But I wondered what it would be like to buy all my clothes new from modestly fashionable outlets, and buy them in subdued colours and sensible styles.

I wondered what it would be like to wear pantyhose and heels every day to work.

I wondered what it would be like to feel the need to put on make-up before I left the house.

I wondered what it would be like to get a manicure and keep it looking pretty. (I just noticed I'd shredded all my fingernails down to a couple millimeters, just from two days work.)

I wondered what it would be like to marry a simple, ordinary man, who likes football and hobby mechanics, who wants a reasonably priced house in the suburbs, painted some shade of beige.

What is it in me that will not be content with these things?

I've got a fire in me, and I don't know what to do with it.

As I lay on the couch, still wearing my work clothes with my wrench in my pocket, I started to fixate.

Hands on my face, rough and dry and warm, cupping and tilting my face upwards.

Lips on my eyelids, soft and moist, leaving cool spots on the delicate skin.

And I started to think: it has been a long time since I've given my heart away.

A very long time.

I have -- I feel that I have, anyway -- a handful of hearts at my disposal, and I don't know what to do with them.

But, as it usually happens, I do nothing, I hurt them unintentionally, and they end up hating me.

Sometimes I hurt them intentionally, because I want to ruin their perfect idea of me.

I hate it when people think I'm perfect.

One of the things I look for in a friend, and especially a lover, is the ability to tell me off when I need telling off.

My brain, it starts talking to itself and gets into unhealthy spirals, which can sometimes revolve around other people, and not in a nice way.

I need someone to break me out of that.

So far, I'm doing okay on my own (I think), but it's always nice to have that safety net, to keep me from really being a dick.

...

Why is it that I always find myself waxing philosophical late at night, in my underpants?

It doesn't seem to happen any other time.

Perhaps it has something to do with the quiet and the dark, so that finally I can hear myself think.

I like the night time. I have often fantasized about being an author, so I could keep my own hours and stay up all night in my own world, just writing and writing.

Maybe some day I'll be like that.

In the meantime, I will put one foot in front of the other and try and find what it is my heart is looking for.

Damned heart.

Sleep time now.

.

Rosie.

Before&After