fredag 1 juni 2012

I'm like Terminator. If Terminator had lactose intolerance.

I've had the worst tooth-ache for several days and finally got a dentist appointment, only to find out that I will have to replace two of my teeth with porcelain replicas. Not something in gold that might give me that sexy pirate-with-pmt-vibe, but porcelain ones. I feel like a cyborg, but not the cool kind - more like the one they use in schools to practice CPR. Anyway, the reason I've been absent from blogging for a while is that I was kidnapped. By terrorists. Or by awesome cable TV and being constantly semi-sick, I can't remember which one. The problem is that films have implanted an idea that diseases in some way are romantic, dramatic and capable of making people painstakingly pale and beautiful. This is lies and boulderdash: there is no way that one could be sexy whilst having vast amounts of mucus cascading out of one's nose and throat, and instead of the Victorian noble woman exhausted by restrictive corsets fainting on a divan, you lie curled up under six blankets yelling at your boyfriend to fetch you some more chocolate pudding because YOU ARE FUCKING DYING. I've always wondered how the traditional romantic "the hero is dying from a chronic disease that only makes him paler and turns him into Val Kilmer" disease-films would look if you simply switched the sexy diseases for the less sexy, more realistic ones - how would the romance in Moulin Rouge turn out if Satine was plagued with stomach flu instead of tuberculosis? Would Philadelphia be as heartbreaking if Andrew was dying from pancreatic cancer? Would Rain Man be so sweet if he suffered from tourettes, or the Phantom of the Opera so hot if the reason he was hiding his face was due to the fact that he suffered from bad acne? Would Baudelaire still be as mysterious if he had obesity fat flaps instead of syphilis? Would the fainting ladies of the 19th century still be as daunting if they had incontinence? My point is that sickness is incapable of being sexy, and that's how it should be: diseases kill us in the end, and dying isn't sexy or romantic or noble, despite how desperately we want it to be that way.

I'm not sure what purpose this post is supposed to have, I'm just sick and depressed and fed up with having to see the film and book-industry feeding off of depression and diseases - Goethe was a big attention whore who ruined the calm sanctity of depression for everyone.

The worst thing is that my sadness isn't heartbreaking or deep or eternal, it just makes me crave a lot of white bread. This is so going into my screenplay "Loathing and bread loafs" - a 19th century drama between a poor, dying painter and his carbohydrates. I'm going to be rich.

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