Regina Cannot Explain It All
I'm Regina Small. I'm a writer and editor in NYC. I have a lot of opinions.
Interests include: sci-fi/fantasy, literature, summertime daydrinking, trying to be a better person, fancy manicures, philosophy, pictures for sad children, and the role of irony in the modern world. And fandom, of course.
I have another blog dedicated exclusively to science fiction/fantasy. Read it here.
We just watched Melancholia and I enjoyed it, even if (or because?) it touched on THE biggest anxiety I have, but mostly what you need to know is that Alexander Skarsgard is only in the first half and he’s essentially playing the perfect man (i.e., himself). If you’ve seen this movie, two words: apple orchard. If you haven’t yet watched this movie, you will remember these words when you do and be like, “Regina was right. Perfect man.”
Seriously, though, his existence HURTS. How can one man be this…everything? I used to think the whole fist-biting-to-indicate-someone’s-hottness gesture was so bizarre but I GET IT NOW, Internet.
(Tom’s response to my ASkars obsession is to repeatedly call him “Stellan Skarsgard” or “Peter Sarsgaard,” and I am not sure how to interpret that.)
Public stories about the sex you’ve had should, I think, not be stories about sex or about you.
And just to be clear, re: this post, I do think anyone who has experienced major tragedy should be allowed to just go crazy for a year because, from my own personal experience (and I think it’s fair to call what happened in 2010-11 a tragedy), these kinds of massive crises disrupt your faith in everything — the goodwill of God, the goodwill of other people. It just fucks with your head to consider how everyone else’s lives just move on and yours can’t. No one calls a time-out on life progressing just because internally you feel that everything’s at a standstill. Days pass, holidays come, other people get up and go to work and shop and live and breathe because they’re not you and your problems aren’t theirs. So, yeah, any indication that other people have the nerve to enjoy their family, their friends, their good health, their Michael Buble Christmas album or whatever, can only be interpreted as a personal insult. Fuck you for being able to live…you know? (Not YOU GUYS, you know what I mean, secondpersonpluralgeneralyou.)
The problem is that reality still exists as a thing, and that — usually — no one is trying to be thoughtless or hurtful by putting you on a mass e-mail party invitation. It’s like getting mad a grocery store cashier who tells you to have a nice day after she rings you up. Unless the person addressing you is a dear friend, they really don’t know how much you’ve been suffering or how much you will continue to suffer in the days to come. I understand that lady’s anger but part of me just wants to tell her to save her energy for better battles than the nonspecific carelessness of people. Grieving is so much harder if you begin to believe that the universe and everyone in it are conspiring to hurt you as much as possible.
