full of moxie and viscosity

Just got around to watching the last season of Sex and the City. I didn't mean to, but of course I ended up bawling and feeling inspired and happy about being a writer and being feminine and all of the things they want you to feel after watching. For someone who hates television as much as I do (note to self: due to lack of interesting blogs recently, an anti-television blog might be quite the medicine), I certainly buy into every last weepy violin note in every last soundtrack to every last episode. I buy into every line, every kiss, every relationship. The ultimate in voyeurism, the ultimate in hope, envy. I want to translate it into my art, now, make it somehow speak through the writing. That voyeurism, that hope. The novel might have an even newer, fresher ending to it.

Even as this blog is written, a strange occurrence... a message? A text? Little leaping lizards, what is this? Sigh. It never ends, no matter how much I write. It never ends.