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March
5,
2001
I’ve discovered what I want to
be in life, and it’s the mysterious love interest in an indie film.
Yes, I wanna arrive about a third of the way in the story, all
dark looks, chain smoking, trying to hide panicked eyes with a
semi-shady back story.
And
I'd have really thin arms. Like
Lara Flynn Boyle thin. I
want to be mysterious.
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I
want to be doing my own thing when the main character (who is desperate,
clueless and sculpted with impossible muscles, and tousled brown hair)
bumps into me. I want my voice to be a husky whisper tinged with whiskey
and cigarette smoke. I want
him to think I’m deeply wrapped in circumstances of my own, like
trying to get away from my abusive boyfriend, or conned into helping
someone rob a bank. I want
to look troubled, and trapped. I
want him to see me and want to help.
I want to protest, no get out of here, you’ll get out of town
if you know what’s good for you.
I want him not to know what’s good for him. I want him to be driven mad with
the thought of me. I want
to get under his skin to where he'll scratch up his arms with the itch
of me. I want him to give
up everything he has just to hold me.
For the promise of loving me.
I want him to watch me when we’re in the same room, I want him
to miss me when I leave. I want him to wonder about me, what I’m doing, how can he
find me. I want him to do
everything possible to get back to me.
I want him to want me.
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