Something about this image terrifies me. It's the windblown, almost post-coital hair. It's how the eyes are reduced to mascara-shrouded and lifeless black slits. It's the prominence of the mole on her right cheek -- how it catches the light just so, riding high on waves of wrinkles, a dermatological surfer seen from the sky. It's how her yellow gray teeth match her winter wheat hair perfectly. It's what passes for joy on an altogether joyless face.

I assume that the joyless joy is a result of prosecutors having dropped fraud charges against Martha Stewart today.

I used to have dreams in which I'd have sex with women I hate. In them, I'd be filled with anxiety and rage over over the feeling I was being forced to have sex with these women. I think the dreams were an expression of my deeply sublimated resentment of all women for making me a prisoner of my bestial desires, for making me do embarrassing things to have sex with them. I don't have those dreams anymore, I think because I'm engaged. The embarrassment for sex exchange is no longer as acute. It's more about attending Crate and Barrel bridal events than about playing the jackass in a bar and risking rejection at the hands of some co-ed nursing a cosmo.

But when I had them, this is the kind of face I'd see in those dreams. Egging me on and mocking me, and laughing, laughing, laughing.

Analogcabin @ 9:23 AM
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