i scrolled down for an explanation and there was none
A remake of George Orwell’s “Nineteen Eighty-Four” that follows the plot and tone of the book exactly, but plays Bowling for Soup’s “1985” over the credits, leaving the audience baffled and wondering if it was supposed to imply a forthcoming, really inappropriate, sequel.
Meth throwing a blunt to the crowd
Method Man is, was, and will always be the coolest
"The way I see it, there are two types of people. There are those that refuse to challenge themselves, and I mean really existentially challenge themselves. And then there is us.”
"But is that really the best way to do it?"
"Well, we do it for definition, right?
"Right, but what I’m saying is- is that the only way to find definition?"
"Oh hell, I don’t know. But it’s probably the best way."
She took a protracted drag from an acrid cigarillo. I coughed.
"Being with him, it’s like…my beautiful dark twisted fantasy."
"Are you quoting Kanye West? What are you saying to me?"
"Okay, forget that last part. It’s my beautiful darkness. And i revel in it."
Her accent was idiosyncratic and distinctive, straddling British and Valley Girl. Her command of functional English was near native; of standard American lilts and idioms, tenuous.
Another lengthy drag.
"Vic, you know life isn’t a poem, right?"
Snort, cough, laugh. Smoke fired from her nose.
"Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it is! Or at least, it can be."
“‘Beautiful darkness’ though? Sounds like Sylvia Plath. You do know she put her head in an oven?”
"You wouldn’t understand, you are not an artiste.”
Drag. Exhale. Her life was infinitely more meaningful than mine; sacrosanct, despite being an ontological farrago at once belletristic and insipid, casuist and desultory, self-inimical and Heliogabaline. She was content in her discontent and that (for the moment; did I mention highly mercurial?) was her definition.
(a passage I wrote recently, which will make little sense out of context. Apologies.)
"Ah? Mah? Yah."
The inscrutable sounds seemed to pour out of the walls, reverberating back and forth between both plaster and eardrum. Sporadically, and with little attention paid to time or appropriateness, they came. The Far-East-West needed to call home, of course, and time zones can be tricky; still, it was hard to see his speech as anything other than maddening. Once entering it was pervasive, true, but more than that it was…odd. So foreign in every manner- the diction, familiar aurally, perhaps, and yet clearly completely different in context; the frequency, mostly pithy, perplexing as to how anything could be communicated, with occasional paroxysms breathtaking in speed and duration (for both of us, I guess); but more than all, its emotion- almost completely intangible. Maybe what made it maddening was not its presence but my unbreakable attention it its presence. Due dates and appointments crumbled and blew away as I sat there, an invincible statue, studying the sounds for even a clue of meanings. Sleep, too, often failed to curb my appetite- I’d lay motionless in bed as the noise filled my room, leaking out of every possible crevice. In my stupor it sometimes seemed as though a response came from the other wall, on Virgil’s side, and sometimes that they had even joined in congress from FEW’s side; but that was ridiculous. The madness of attention.
Slowly I began to hate him for it all.
Maybe he’d like some coffee?
by Jason Martin