On Saturday, I saw Mysterious Skin, the newist Arakki movie, and I loved it. It was so disturbing that at least two people left within the first 15 minutes of the show.
I’ve been saying it all weekend but, this movie stold my inner child, raped it and then gave ot back to me in the best way possible.
After the film, Mary and I rushed over to the barnes and noble and bought the book. I finished it this morning at exactly midnight, it totally fucked with my existence. I couldn’t sleep, so I watched robot chicken, but it didn’t take my mind off the fact that the chemical composition of my blood had probably been altered forever. Finally, I went to sleep and had vivid, strange dreams.
I haven’t felt like this since seventh grade, when I read 1984 and came to the seemingly unrelated realization that I would die someday, and it wouldn’t matter at all.
Another, seemingly unrelated realization has come to me. It had been brewing in my mind like a pimple, and Mysterious Skin caused it to burst, covering my brain in a foul smelling sludge, permeating all the little ridges and wrinkles, adding a new color spectrum with witch to view the world