The Bodyguard: When A Woman Loves A Man

Ah. Love. I remember those young days sitting in the classroom auditorium watching the badly produced movie about that South American R&B singer who had died earlier that year, and thinking to my teenage self: I hope that some day I too can fall in love so that I can pause all forward motion on my own personal actions because Israel has stopped receiving weapons in the middle of the night from United States in response to my public post about a two years old offer to write a podcast series that I have repeated hundreds of times so now I am eating whipped cream out of a can in the living room staring at a box of tissues on the ottoman thinking how I like when the box of tissues is put back over at its place by the lamp on the side table because the room looks cleaner but I understand why they keep the box of tissues there because it is more convenient and yeah this example of banality and painful wasteful absurdity is probably relatable enough without seeming to be Freudian or psychological because the box of tissues is just a tissue box.

Which is a long way of saying that if more progress is presented in the morning that I will be moving to Malibu this month then I will decode the set of five images Brie Larson posts which includes this image — the tags of which are Surely, New Hope, Erotica, Stark, Presidencies — although in that case her assessment of Israel is so much more dire than even mine, and I will decode them in the “Bernat marries Faithful FAITH Larson” and the “Toxic Larson crashes Trains in the U.S. because she uses Meta products.”

Both of which may be true; but especially because everything Meta Twitter Alphabet Apple OpenAI has turned Toxic: and the timestamps prove that.

Anyway.

Here. Listen to a playlist I wrote two years ago as I sat at a disappointing Los Angeles restaurant eating a burger forty miles away from Malibu swearing to myself I was finally able to walk away from this horror of an experience, and so I wrote myself a playlist to motivate myself to stay disconnected, except that I could not journal into my Google Docs without Meta, Paul Graham, Israel, and others reading along to my private thoughts so by the time I reached Tennessee with my car, I had been contact traced by several of the men Elon Musk had hired (with their dogs!) and then also that Hellman’s Heiress who was the reason Brie Larson was paid quite a lot of money to be in a Hellman’s Super Bowl commercial the following January. Ah. Love. Brie will recognize the intentional dig at her with my choice of playlist titles, but the songs are sentimental. Because why should my life have any independent value, or checking the events of the last three years, any value at all? Either I am a colossal idiot or this world is far worse than I feared.

We’re out of whipped cream, by the way. Why do I have to do all the shoppi —

See? The joke is that the red light is both — well, you can figure that out; but also an astronomy reference and a fun reference to her being my wife!

See. How each are wearing black and red. See. In movies fashion someti…
Nearly certain I live in a circle of hell. Thanks.
Will update in the morning if progress is show.
Remember when 6:13 and 1:37 were gifts of timestamps for these projects!