Sunday, February 18, 2007
Love blows. Men blow. Carbs blow (well, really, they rock...but you know what I mean, surely). REALITY blows. I want to die.
Seriously, I do.
...Ooooor, I'll take life in Alaska.
I want to start life over again. I want to relocate to Alaska, where I can live in an igloo (or a very spacious but cozy log cabin) with someone I know with whom a future is very much an unreality in reality. We can listen to songs we like, write novels and short stories and read books all day and then talk about the books we've read over dinner in our igloo/log cabin. In our bedroom, there will be a skylight through which we'll watch the Northern Lights at night. We'll have a gym in the basement of our igloo (ahem...)/ log cabin, where I'll work out first thing in the morning, every morning, forever, without worrying about making it into work, because we wouldn't have to work. We'd be wealthy off of writing our short stories AND our screenplays. We'll be the reclusive power couple of the century.
Vanity Fair will do a spread on us. Each photo will show us looking languid and happy in our igloo/log cabin, flush from the warmth of it, flush from the stories and the music and the abundance of omega-3 fatty acids in our fish-heavy diet. In one pic, I'll wear a little dress and my feet will be bare, the toe nails painted red. He'll wear jeans, an ironic t-shirt and flip flops. I'll wear jeans with brown riding boots in another, maybe a cardigan with a skull pattern on it, and big gold earrings. On him, pajama bottoms. In another pic, we'll be dressed for the Oscars (we'll have attended the Oscars for our best-screenplay nomination and win) but not wearing the actual outfits we wore to the Oscars. Instead of the black couture Chanel gown, I'll wear a white empire silk tulle Marchesa gown embroidered with golden flowers. He'll wear a Giorgio Armani tux, which, while it looks a hell of a lot like the Dolce & Gabbana he wore to the Oscars, will also be a hell of a lot different. His bow tie will be undone, his hair mussed. I might want my lipstick smudged.
The VF people will insist on one photo with us in native garb, which I find termendously uncomfortable, so instead of describing it at length, I'll tell you that our outfits in this pic will be lush and gorgeous and very ethnic. I'll wear a lot of heavy native jewelry, all my own. He'll have to wear those uncomfortable native shoes, khusays. He'll limp in pain by the end of the shoot. I'll be sweaty under the layers of the past. And, finally, in the last photo, we'll be glamorously unrecognizable in layers and layers of coats and hats and scarves and mittens and snow boots. We'll be holding hands in that awkward way that people wearing mittens hold hands. Maybe we'll stand in front of our igloo/ log cabin (in all honesty, I'm leaning towards the log cabin. I mean, how comfortable can an igloo be, right?).
I love this life. It sounds like heaven.