[7.7.2000 * 1:56 pm] It occurred to me the other day that acting is the pinnacle of Sartre's concern about the Other defining who I am. As an actor, one must take direction -- become the character the script calls for. And there are so many stories about actors and actresses who refuse to see their own movies, saying that they can't stand to see and hear themselves. Why? Because they are playing a role that the Other has thrust upon them. Because they finally see themselves as the Other sees them, rather than the image they have in their heads (which is always kinder), and this is simply horrifying. We don't want the Other to define us, we shrink from this, and yet we cannot escape it. Actors are constantly allowing the Other to define them; it is their job. But the scariest thing of all is that we are all actors. Most of us aren't even compensated with huge salaries and the other trappings of wealth for playing these parts. It's just something we do. We wake up each morning and put on a different mask. We all have our parts to play. Some of us are particularly lousy actors, but we feel we have to lie to one another. And this is why all actors eventually decide they want to direct. But enough about acting. Let's talk about me. It also occurs to me that I'm a real antisocial character. I didn't drag my ass out of bed until almost 1pm, and now I have no interest in... what the fuck? A car horn just started honking, directly outside my house, as though it were an alarm -- every two seconds. Fucking a, that's annoying. Where the hell is a baseball bat when you need one? Good. The asshole who owns the car finally shut it off. I hate you people with car alarms. They are completely useless. Haven't you realized this by now? How many times have you personally set the alarm off? Okay, now let's compare that number to the number of times someone ELSE has set the alarm off. Hmm. It would appear that virtually NO ONE has set your alarm off besides yourself. Logically, unless you are planning to steal your own car, you should GET RID OF THE FUCKING ALARM. Jesus, just buy the Club and leave the irritating sounds out of it. Do you really enjoy running back to your honking vehicle every time you leave it parked on the street for five minutes? Do you find it amusing to run out and check to see if it's your alarm, as opposed to one of fifty other fuckwits parked on the block? Besides all of this, do you think a thief is really deterred by your alarm's noise? Not at all. They will just rip out the appropriate wires, silence the vehicle, hotwire your piece of shit car, and take off. Wow, that alarm was useful wasn't it? Why don't you invest in one of those radar tracking systems instead? It's totally silent and you may actually (gasp!) get your car back if it's stolen. What a novel idea. Like I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted by a car horn blaring my thoughts away, antisocial=me. We are synonymous. I don't like to leave my apartment when I can sit here, naked, typing email and diary entries. If any of the online delivery services actually delivered to the Bronx, I'd be all over it, having delivery guys coming to my house every five minutes. Why should I have to deal with the masses in the supermarket when I can send a delivery boy to deal with it for me? God bless the internet. Or maybe I should just decide that I don't give a damn and wear my bedsheets as a toga when I decide to venture out of the house. Screw bathing, shaving, putting in contacts and trying to find something "decent" or "clean" to wear... I am flinging aside all of society's constructs and stepping out in my $3 Gap sandals and a violet bedsheet! You gotta problem wi' dat? FUCK YOU! There's my New York pride. Honestly, where else could you get away with the bullshit I'd like to pull? I really must take advantage of this topless law, though. Women should have as much right as men to rip their shirts off and walk around half nude in the hot summer sun if they so desire. But you know what boggles me is the fact that there will always be signs on stores reading "No shirt, no shoes, no service." Okay, what if I come in wearing a shirt, sandals, and no pants? Isn't that way more disturbing than my coming into the store topless? Isn't it really genitalia that people don't want to see while they're trying to get a cup of coffee? I, for one, don't give a damn about seeing someone's exposed upper body, even if it's flabby and pasty and sporting bitch tits like Bob from Fight Club. On the other hand, I would feel truly violated if I saw someone's shriveled penis while I was shopping. Just not a good vibe there. Let's stop discussing people's nether regions for a moment, since I really hate to have my diary turn into a pornocopia. (That was the title of a book I reshelved yesterday. I looked at it and said "Hey, I wonder if there are any pictures?" For future reference, the author is a tease. Only text lined the pages of this supposedly smutty book. However, one of our new books was discussing body images and had lots of pictures of half nude men. Sadly, most of them were gay Calvin Klein models [is THAT what a man looks like?], but hey, it's something.) Actually, let us turn for a moment to a discussion of the male body. I'm sure I've said it before, but I'll say it again: men are built funny. Obviously the male was built first; everyone needs a rough draft. But seriously, they would be so much better if they were assembled in a similar manner to a Ken doll. One can only laugh when a man drops his pants, unless one is extremely polite and/or horny. Women are far superior. We have better figures, no bizarre protrusions, and we don't have to hide behind a desk when a cute member of the opposite sex walks by. I almost feel sorry for men, being so poorly engineered. This may be enough to explain why they've been trying to punish and oppress women over the centuries. A poor body image can make anyone pissy. But before I start to rewrite Stiffed, I must say that despite the hilarity of the male body, it can still be pretty sexy. (Hey, I don't want to utterly destroy my chances of getting laid.) Now that I've bashed males, discussed genitalia, dissed car alarms, and waxed philosophical, what else is left? Who have I failed to insult or offend today? I must make a checklist. Oh, speaking of checklists, here is my LIST OF PEOPLE WHO SHOULD NOT REPRODUCE: 1. Me I thought I had 100 people on this list, but I accidentally jumped from 85 to 90 when I turned the page in my notebook. Whoops. I'm sure I could come up with 4 more people if I thought about it. Like: 97. Shania Twain Enough inanity. I am going to bathe, shave, and put my toga back on for spite.
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