Steal

forty three.


This is my intentionally low-budget feel of a movie life, get out.


This is my mumblecore moment of unrefined and poorly articulated (albeit long winded) emotional semi-clarity and you're not even listening.


My face is like,
On this massive Los Angeles falling apart Art Deco screen, and I'm blindly stealing my personality and monotonous drawl from an incongruous overkill of indie soap opera scripts, 
and my unwarranted frustration is all just so reminiscent of those decapitated charlie brown grown up drones, but hey man


you're that guy. The one in the front row that talks through the big tense shebang. 


I listened while you did the whole tell it like it is 'I'm the straight up king of the subtly ironic new world' monologue, and I mean I totally got it and it moved me and shit, but it's like you thought it was this great understated end to the scene when all things considered, 
it was just so anticlimactic. 


And now I can't even eat my 3 dollar vegan pastry-cardboard hybrid because I'm just exasperatingly underwhelmed. 
Cut.