Oh, the tears that have been jerked. C.R.A.Z.Y. made me cry and cry and cry. It made Brokeback Mountain, the last film that jerked forth my tears, look like an Adam Sandler movie (a looooooooong, boooooooooring Adam Sandler movie). See Melbine’s old post about the cathartic nature of Quebecois films – seriously, no fucking film made me cry that much since Les invasions barbares. I recommend it.
I’m also taking the step of recommending Happiness: A History – I had to return it and borrow it again from the library because it’s a new release so I’m not quite finished, but the section on liberalism and its discontents when it comes to the idea of the pursuit of happiness is so fucking good that McMahon could spend the last 100 pages describing how to increase personal happiness by shaving your beard to spell “I am a cunt” and I’d still recommend it for the Grade Nine Ontario curriculum.
And in a few moments of pure navel gaze,
A.I have short hair now.
B. On Friday Sugarplum and I were talking about kids, and I was reflecting on what an awful mother I would be. Or maybe we were talking about co-habitation, and I was being nervous about sharing my life with someone, no matter how adorable, when everything is just the way I like it these days already. Anyways, whatever I was going on about I was approaching my emotions as though I have a limited supply of love that must be spent carefully or else I run the risk of Love Bankruptcy. Sugarplum pointed out loving people is an addition to your life, and not some sort of emotional capitalist calisthenic. That sounds simple enough but I don’t think I understood properly until she mentioned how she couldn’t imagine loving her first cat less after getting her second cat even though she loves her second cat so much. Sounds basic, but I think I would do well to take her attitude to heart.
C. Yesterday I got a massage at the Carrot Common. It was so good, I can’t even tell you. I saw the only RMT at the Shiatsu clinic, who was a man, which makes this the first time a man has given me a massage that wasn’t a prelude to me being taken advantage of. And I must say it was a very manly massage. He wasn’t messing around at all – thumb-pummeled that pain right away. And he handled my ass and legs so well, which was a drooling joy as they get stiff from all the biking and silly shoes. Top marks. I walked out of there feeling like my body had smoked a joint and forgotten to tell my brain. The fun thing was that meant walking straight out into the Taste of the Danforth and getting a grilled jumbo shrimp skewer dipped in butter.