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Affleck

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You will never leave my heart behind. [22 Oct 2003|11:33pm]
[ mood | reluctant ]

Rest in peace, Elliot.

[This journal is closed. Bye, kids.]

disclaimer
[14 Sep 2003|01:42am]
Well, you know what they say. A gentleman never reveals all, at least not all at once.

Soon enough, kids. Soon enough.
38 Fuckers|The fuck?

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So I guess this is the ending of a beautiful mistake. [03 Aug 2003|11:45pm]
Don't ask. Just. Don't ask. I've found myself reverting back to an old standby. When the going gets tough, I make like an ostrich and stick my head in the fucking sand. I find that it works well for me. Better than the other old standby, at least. Speaking of. Two years last Thursday. I believe that entitles me to use the phrase, "I win."

I got his ring back. When I saw the package sitting on the kitchen table, this inconspicous little brown envelope amongst bills and junkmail, my first instinct was to just pitch it. But I couldn't do it. That ring is the last remnant of something that dominated my life for almost two years. Something that, paradoxically, gave me some of the best and worst memories I'll ever have. The ring, and it's companion that I wore on my own pinkie--the one that his was made to match--are tucked safely away in a box in my closet. I guess, I don't know. There was a part of me that really believed that this was like every other time we broke up, even though I professed exactly the opposite. Him sending me that ring back, it was like a punch in the fucking face. Not a slap. No, it wasn't that gentle. It's really over this time. Time to move on, time to heal, all that other mindless post breakup psychobabble. There's no moving on, really. But hell, I've made it through worse.

I think it really fucking hit me tonight. Yeah, I did watch the E! True Hollywood special on myself and Matt. And it wasn't so much the special itself--though I have to admit that it did produce this familiar ache in my chest to watch myself and him when everything was golden. But no, it wasn't really that. It was the fact that the show was one of those things that we would've watched together, laughing at the fact that they reported basically nothing that wasn't already known, rolling our eyes over the random inaccuracies and speculative bullshit. But, well. Yeah.

Obviously, there's a lot of shit to be talked about right now. However, I have more pressing issues to worry about right now. Someone's expecting me, and I wouldn't want to disappoint.
20 Fuckers|The fuck?

disclaimer
[04 Jul 2003|10:56pm]
[ mood | still festive. extra festive, even. ]

Alright kids, here's the deal. Gina and I talked, well, more like had a screaming match a little bit ago, and we've decided to extend this here little party. Ha, little my ass. Anyway, the festivies will continue through the rest of the weekend. I've already stashed some fireworks away for tomorrow, including a few of the Freedom Flamers that Gina can't stop giggling over. I would make a joke about them, myself. But really, how fucking obvious is that?

To reiterate. The 4th party has been extended to a 4th-6th party. If you couldn't make it down here for today, there's still two more days of mayhem and debauchery to take part in. And we have enough food and drink to supply a large army. Let it never be said that Gina and I do shit like this half-assed.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some fireworks to set off.

8 Fuckers|The fuck?

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[04 Jul 2003|12:16pm]
[ mood | festive ]

Happy 4th and all that. May no one blow their hand off with a Roman Candle. Happened to my friend's brother when we were growing up. Fucker had a few too many and decided to see if he could light the fuse and snuff it out before it exploded -- kind of like a game of 4th of July chicken. He lost, obviously. True story.

Gina and I arrived yesterday afternoon, and proceeded to spend a G on fireworks. You name it, we bought it. We also spent a pretty penny on refreshments -- just because I don't partake, doesn't mean I'm going to deny anyone else a little liquid courage. Thank Christ I don't have many close neighbors down here, because I know the cops would get called tonight.

Technically, the festivities start at six, but the house has been slowly filling up since last night, and I think someone's already tapped the first keg. If you aren't already here, you'd better be on your way. No need to worry about accomodations, the plantation's got room for all y'all.

I guess I should go start playing the good host now.

7 Fuckers|The fuck?

disclaimer
[29 Jun 2003|02:47pm]
[ mood | negligent ]

Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I think Mark Twain said that. I could be wrong. Considering that this is me talking, there's a very good chance that I am.

I'm a fucking bastard, aren't I? Let's call it an excercise in...Well, in the long run, it was futility. I never find what I'm looking for when I close myself off. You would think I'd learned that by now. But sadly, I've just never been able to control my urges. Whether they're urges to hide...Or those other kind.

Long story short, I attempted to do a little soul searching. Unfortunately, it didn't help and I'm still as fucked up as I've always been. Oh well. You win some, you lose some. Thank Christ for Gina and her willingness to answer a ringing cell phone in the wee hours of the morning.

Speaking of the missus, we're throwing a 4th o' July party at my house in Georgia. It's Gina's annual party, but since we're married and all, it's at one of my places this year. Fireworks, debauchery, you name it. There's even a good chance I'll run around naked. But you won't know unless you show up. Everyone is invited, and if you have any questions, just find Gina or I and we'll do our best to answer them.

43 Fuckers|The fuck?

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I know someday you'll have a beautiful life. [22 May 2003|01:11am]
[ mood | fucking tired ]

Fucking Christ, I've been busy this week. I wish that I could add "in more ways than one" to that sentence, but sadly, I cannot. Work, work, motherfucking work. This has been one of the longest weeks of my life. How the hell is it only fucking Wednesday?

I feel like I should have more to say than I do. I'm sure if I thought long and hard enough, I probably would. But I just don't have the fucking energy right now. I'm tired. And in this case, I can add "in more ways than one" to the sentence. So here goes.

I'm tired, in more ways than one. I'm tired of waking up a few times during the night because my body is still so used to sleeping next to someone. Granted, I make Marisa sleep in my bed when we're both home -- please note that I did say sleep, and I mean that in the literal sense. But in Vancouver, I'm alone. And it's so fucking hard to fall asleep when I don't have that reassurance of a warm body laying next to me. Someone suggested sleeping pills to me the other day, when I showed up in the makeup trailer with dark circles and the excuse that I have insomnia. But I think it's ridiculous to turn to medication when the problem is your fucked up psyche.

I'm tired of never knowing if I'm going to wake up in a good mood or if I'll wake up to a familiar song on the radio that never fucking fails to put me in a bad mood. Why the fuck did Aaron Lewis have to cover Pearl Jam's "Black"? And why the fuck does the station I have the alarm set to have to play it every fucking time I get up? It doesn't matter the time of day, the song is always on. You could say it's stalking me. The best solution would be to set the alarm to the ringer or to a different station but well. You know me. Always the fucking masochist. Anyway, on the off chance I do wake up in a good mood, there's the never knowing if I'm going to hear or see something that will change my mood at the snap of my fucking fingers. And for the record? There's almost always something.

Alright. That's enough. Fucking pity party, table for one. The point is. I'm overworked, overwrought, and probably more than a little fucking overemotional. I'm in NY, at my loft. And the fucking funny thing is, I've had this place for years but everything feels sterile and unfamiliar, even though it's full of shit that belongs to me. I guess I'm just not used to being here when I'm in the city. I'm usually. Yeah. Somewhere else.

At any rate, I'm picking up Gina for a seven am flight to London tomorrow and as fucking pounded into your heads earlier, I'm tired. Hopefully, by the end of my weeklong stay across the pond, I won't be able to add the phrase "in more ways than one" anymore.

43 Fuckers|The fuck?

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We only bruised each other moreso. [09 May 2003|11:49pm]
I have a cough. It could be an annoying spring cold, it could just be fucking smoker's cough. But the point here is, I have a cough. And everytime I start coughing, people watch me apprehensively. I feel like I should be wearing a fucking sign that says, "I do not have SARS."

I don't have anything other than that to say. Or, I do, but I don't know how to say it. I have that problem from time to time, and I've never understood it. I can ramble for ages about inane bullshit like I did in that first paragraph and more than a few of the entries in this journal but I can't say what I actually want to say. I like to think that I have a fairly extensive vocabulary, and yet I just cannot fucking find the words.

I understand limbo now. Actually, I don't think what I'm feeling now can be accurately described as limbo, considering that it was made pretty clear that there's nothing that would cause me to be in limbo. But I understand it. I understand it and I fucking hate it. And I'm angry. I shouldn't be, I know that. But I motherfucking am. There's a glass sitting next to my laptop and I want nothing more than to pick it up and hurl it at the fucking wall. But I won't. Because I know what happens when I get like this, and I really don't feel like paying for damages to the room. Besides, it's rock stars that trash hotel rooms, not actors. I want to do something that I can't do. I won't do it but Jesus fucking Christ I want to. But I know I'm stronger than that. I've proven it to myself and so I'll just fucking keep on proving it.

I need to go make a phone call. I don't know to who, but yeah.
47 Fuckers|The fuck?

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[07 May 2003|03:14am]
I was all fucking worried about missing my flight and now it's fucking delayed, anyway. Oh well. Have laptop, will update. All I'm going to do is this:

Bitch #1 - [info]hauser

Bitch #2 - [info]jason_l

That's all I want to talk about right now.
30 Fuckers|The fuck?

disclaimer
[06 May 2003|10:38pm]
I went on this rollercoaster on Sunday. Shocking, isn't it? I mean it's not like we went to an amusement park or anything. Okay, actually, I went on several rollercoasters. But this one eclipses all of the others. It goes from zero to a hundred and twenty in about four seconds and shoots you up four hundred and twenty feet. I think I saw Canada across the lake. There's probably some kind of metaphor I could glean from that, but I won't bother.

We landed at LAX close to noon yesterday. After a quick stop at home to pick up all of the junk Lily accumulated while she was staying with me, I dropped her off. Jen, with the utterance of, "I've seen enough of you in the past week, Affleck," went back to her own house. Marisa was gone when we got in. If you can believe it, she actually went grocery shopping. Of her own volition. With her own money. If I were a few years older, I would've worried for the health of my heart when I found out. Yesterday was the first day in a long time that I've actually been alone in the house. I half expected my voice to echo. Not that I was talking to myself. You know.

I met Shakira for lunch at Spago yesterday afternoon. She wore something slutty and we had sex on the table, as is our tradition. Okay, only one of those things is true. Her choice of clothing was actually quite tasteful. Kidding. In the evening, I hung out with Christina, ate ordered-in Thai, and talked politics. She's very well informed.

Or maybe I'll stop being cryptic for once. I didn't come home last night. When I woke up this morning, the first thing I noticed was the breeze blowing through the open window, ruffling the curtains. Then I remembered that my bedroom doesn't have curtains, it has blinds. And the window is on the other side of the room, not a few feet away from the bed. And my sheets are white cotton, not pale blue silk. That's when I noticed the small, manicured hand attached to the arm that was flung across my torso. She was awake, too, and greeted me with a sleepy smirk and a quirked eyebrow.

Half an hour later, give or take, while she made breakfast -- I'd offered to do it and she laughed at me -- we talked and reaffirmed that nothing about our friendship has changed. We just know where each other's tattoos are now.

So yeah. I'm taking a red eye back to Vancouver in a few hours and I'll be bright eyed, bushy tailed, and ready and raring to work. Let's just hope I don't have to do any shirtless scenes for the next week or so.
49 Fuckers|The fuck?

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You never slow down, never grow old. [04 May 2003|04:02am]
[ mood | busy ]

Isn't Ohio supposed to be warm in May? It was in the upper forties when we landed early this afternoon. How the fuck is that mid-spring weather? Fucking Midwest. I'm also a big fan of the orange barrells every ten miles or so on the highway we had to take earlier today. How much construction can one stretch of road need? Jen, Lily, and I spent the day in Cleveland and vicinity. There were tentative plans to take a ferry out to one of the Lake Erie islands, but those were squashed as soon as we heard the weather forecast. It's fucking cold enough near the lake. I didn't want to be on it. So we watched some potheads hold a march or something through downtown and went to the Great Lakes Science Center. I would've rather gone to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but the science place was more age appropriate for Lily. And we had fun there, I made a tornado. It was neat.

We're in Sandusky now. There's an amusement park here, Cedar Point. Tomorrow's opening day, and I've been wanting to go back there for years. Gwyn took me once when we went to visit her aunt who lives out here. It's fucking cool. I guess it has a bunch of world records or something. I don't care, I just feel like I need that adrenaline rush that comes from thinking you're going to fly out of your seat and fall to your death.

I've kept myself busy this past week. The proverbial datebook reads like the guestlist of some random industry function. Paintball with Drew on Tuesday -- I still have a welt on my leg and a bump on the back of my fucking head. Wednesday, I took Kate and Lily to Disneyland -- Lily's been staying with me since -- went out to dinner with the missus, and did a little star gazing on the beach with Jen Garner later that night. Thursday was mostly spent swimming at the beach with Lily, and I took her with me to a homecooked dinner at Milla's. It's true what they say, you know. The fastest way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Yesterday, I went shopping with Kieran in the afternoon and hung out with Morrissey later on in the day. And then there's the whole taking care of a small child thing. So yeah. Full week. Busy. When I go back to work next week, it's going to be like a fucking culture shock. I don't know what I'm going to do to keep my mind occupied.

And now it's four fucking am. Fucking time zones.

19 Fuckers|The fuck?

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Some things you can't erase, no matter how hard you try. [28 Apr 2003|09:48pm]
[ mood | social ]

Kevin bans me from the editing room. Can I help that the fucker lacks vision and all of my best scenes end up on the cutting room floor? It's bad enough that he's let me slip in one madlib in all of the movies we've done together. Come on! I'm obviously experienced enough to know when additional dialogue can make a scene. I'm the one with the Oscar, after all, not that fucking script nazi. Uh. Anyway. Day two of my little impromptu vacation was spent visiting with the Smiths -- I really do love what they've done with my old house, especially the naked painting of Mrs. Smith in the foyer -- and watching the third cut of Jersey Girl.

Maybe it's just another facet of my narcissism, but I fucking love watching a movie come together like this. Actually, that goes for any movie, so I suppose my narcissistic side has fuck to do with it, for once. I watched the dailies every day while we were filming, and I was among the first four people to see the original cut of the movie. And while -- here comes the narcissism -- I hate seeing scenes that I liked myself in end up on the floor, I do have to admit that Kevin and Scott have good eyes. The latest cut flows even better than the first two, and I really fucking think this is going to be the movie that makes the general public and the critics sit up and take notice of Kevin's abilities. Regardless of the fact that I star, it's a good fucking movie.

Tomorrow, I'm probably going to get my ass kicked by Drew Barrymore in paintball. I'm man enough to admit when I know I'm outmatched. Some night this week, I'm taking the wife out to dinner. Newlyweds, you know. I think Milla is supposed to cook for me one night. I want to get together with Christina at some point, too. And Kate and Lily. And, really, anyone else who wants to. I'm in the mood to be social. Other than that, I'm just spending some quality time with the roommate and the fake fiancee. We were talking about driving up to San Diego for a day this week. I wonder if I'll run into that fan again. It's a small world and everything, you know.

The house feels empty, but I'm trying not to dwell on that. I guess, you get used to things...And sometimes you just have to make yourself stop being used to them. Or something.

32 Fuckers|The fuck?

disclaimer
[28 Apr 2003|12:06am]
[ mood | elated ]

John tells me yesterday afternoon that the shooting schedule has been changed and I won't be needed again until next week. The Sox were playing the Angels this weekend. Coincidence? I think not. We made up for yesterday's loss and I got to watch it live and in person. I like to think that my being at the game had something to do with that. Well, not really. I fucking love games that go extra innings. Just fucking love it. Alright, I fucking love baseball, period. But seriously. There's that edge-of-your-fucking-seat, nail-biting, will-they-or-won't-they quality that just makes a game so much better. Extra innings and late inning comebacks are hands down two of my favorite things about the game. There's just this feeling of...Elation that comes from witnessing shit like that.

So to make a long story short, looks like I'll be home for a few days. First order of business is to kick Marisa out of the master bedroom and change the sheets so that I don't have to sleep on something that smells like girl.

30 Fuckers|The fuck?

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Believe me, I'm just as lost as you. [26 Apr 2003|01:12am]
I've had this urge to write, as of late. It's not that I have massive amounts of inspiration, so much as I feel the need to find any way possible to distract myself. I just. Don't want to think about my life and all of the indecisiveness I'm feeling right now and the fucking constant inner conflict I've been having with myself.

When is enough, enough? I mean, when should you stop and realize that no matter how much you love someone or how much they love you, love will never be enough. Because it just doesn't work. Or it works and then stalls and then works and then stalls and ad fucking infinitum. I want to go back to the way things were, I want to go back to when we were happy/content/insert-relevant-adjective-here. Because I love him so fucking much and there's a part of me missing without him. But I don't want to be rehashing this shit and saying it all over again in a few weeks or a few months or however long it'll take before it all comes crashing down again. Because it will. And maybe that's my fault, or fuck. Yeah, it's my fault. And I guess I'm just better off single. Less people hurt, that way.

Anyway. What was I talking about? Oh, yeah. Writing. I've been writing random scenes all week. Just five or six minute pieces of...Whatever. None of them are connected and I highly doubt any will actually make it into a script. But I guess the point is that they're functioning as what I intended for them to function as. Distractions. When I'm in the mindset of the characters I'm writing -- or the one I'm playing during filming -- I don't think about anything else. So it's becoming for me what something else used to be. A way out.

This isn't what I wanted to write about. Why do I always do that? I only updated to make losers like Kieran happy, anyway.
13 Fuckers|The fuck?

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Excuse me while I kiss the sky. [20 Apr 2003|02:13am]
[ mood | festive ]

I feel like a kept man without the sex. Since I always bitch about how I spend a fuck of a lot of real money on a fake relationship, Jen took it upon herself to spend some money of her own. So I'll have a new car when the latest Mercedes model is publically released. Or probably a few days before, but yeah. And I have a new watch. There was some talk of buying me an island, but I think she was joking. I hope.

I'm home, home being Boston. There are too many places I call home these days, but this city will always be at the fucking top of the list. The Sox are halfway through sweeping Toronto and nothing is better than watching your favorite team kick another team's collective ass. Though, now I've probably fucking jinxed it and should shut up. I wanted to go to the game tomorrow but was strictly forbidden by not only my mom, but Jen and Marisa as well. Something about how spending holidays with loved ones is more important than some game. Right.

I was going to talk about dying eggs, but Julian Casablancas beat me to it.

I'll stop being avoidant someday.

18 Fuckers|The fuck?

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[17 Apr 2003|11:33pm]
[ mood | authoritarian ]

Marisa Coughlan. Stop unplugging the phones in the house. And also, you are hereby commanded to be in Vancouver by early Saturday afternoon at the latest. Because I want you here, and I want you to come to Boston with me and Jen for Easter. There will be egg dying and Casey mocking. I know you enjoy both.

It's sad that I have to resort to using my journal to convey messages to my roommate.

5 Fuckers|The fuck?

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[16 Apr 2003|07:20pm]
[ mood | shallow ]

There are television commercials for Botox now. If that isn't indicative of our collective shallowness as a society, I don't know what is.

So. To Botox or not to Botox? On one side of the argument, there's the whole willingly allowing yourself to be injected with a product of fucking botulism. One unit of that shit is enough to kill a mouse. They typically inject twenty. Anyway, on the other side of it, there's the fact that the older you get -- and subsequently look -- the less roles you're offered. I was reading an article in Vanity Fair in my trailer this morning about the lawsuit dermatologist Arnold Klein is currently facing. And really, who in Hollywood doesn't know Arnie? Even if you've never gone to him, you have at least one friend or acquaintance who sings his praises. I've never gone to him, but some of the people I know have. Proper decorum -- which I sometimes, but not often have -- has convinced me not to name names. But anyway.

The only aesthetic enhancement I've had over the years would be my teeth. They looked like shit, I made enough money, I had them fixed. Pretty simple, really. I've never had the urge to walk into a plastic surgeon's office and say, "fix this and take this off and move this up a little." I've never gone to a dermatologist and said, "can you inject that toxin into my forehead and effectively paralyze my muscles so that my face shows little to no emotion?" Because, to be honest, that's a chick thing to do. As much pressure as there is on "aging" actors to maintain a youthful visage, there's so much more on actresses. Their skin has to be smooth, their tits have to be "perky," and their stomachs have to be flat. But lately, more and more actors have been going under the knife -- or syringe, considering we're talking about Botox here -- in an attempt to recapture fleeting youth.

And I've been wondering, on and off all day, if Botox is something I should consider. Not now, obviously, because I do still have my youthful good looks and here's hoping I will for a long time to come. But in the future. Because the lines are just going to continue to get deeper. A part of me likes that fact though, because I've always thought that the wrinkles and scars a person carries show how much they've lived. But on the other side of that coin, will I still be bankable once the frown lines deepen? It's ridiculous to worry about all of this when it's -- hopefully -- years off. But still, I'm not going to be young forever...Do I want to be?

Mind not the ramblings of the shallow, narcissistic movie star.

Oh, and Jen and I are being lampooned on the new episode of South Park tonight. Fuck knows I'll be watching.

23 Fuckers|The fuck?

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[15 Apr 2003|02:34am]
Fuck me? Fuck you for not even giving me a chance to explain myself.

I was going to wait to talk about this, but I guess now is as good a time as any. Yes, Gina and I got married this afternoon. We fucking bribed the clerk of courts with a couple hundred dollars and walked out of there with a marriage license. We were married by a minister who had been staying here with his wife this weekend and offered to stay the extra day and perform the ceremony. But here's the thing. Our names aren't on that license. Because we weren't Ben Affleck and Gina Gershon this weekend. Jesus Christ it's not even a real marriage. Sure, it's legit. But only when we're Whispering Smith-Saunders and Willow Saunders-Smith.

Do you want to know why we got married? Because we love each other. Sometimes I think we're fucking soulmates. Two halves of one whole and all that other romantic bullshit. But we aren't a couple, not in the traditional sense. And we don't want to be. Which I realize doesn't make sense, but honestly, neither do Gina and I. And that's the way we like it. We got married because we love each other and it isn't governed by rights and wrongs and misinterpretations. We got married because we're fucking good friends and that's why people should get married.

I know it's too much to expect other people to understand this. I know that others don't have the capacity to understand why two people who aren't even in a romantic relationship would want to get married and do it under fake names. And so I don't. I don't expect anyone other than Gina and myself to understand this. And that's fine by me.

And maybe right now I'm too pissed off to fully comprehend what's happened tonight. And no, I don't mean the wedding. I'm sorry, but I don't and refuse to regret it. Anyway, I'm sure it will hit me tomorrow or the next day, but seriously. Fuck you. Fuck you both. And hey, I guess I did you both a favor because I'm pretty fucking sure you'll be a lot happier without me in the picture. And for the record, I didn't lie. I didn't want out and I never lied about loving either of you. But think whatever the fuck you want. Enjoy yourselves.
15 Fuckers|The fuck?

disclaimer
It ain't me. [15 Apr 2003|01:18am]
[ mood | pierced and married ]

The original plan was for Gina to be back in NY and myself to be back in Vancouver tonight. However, it was unanimously decided -- by all, uh, two of us -- that our three day weekend away from it all should be extended to a four day weekend. And so it was. John was relatively understanding. I don't remember the excuse I gave him, but it must have been a good one.

It's been fucking beautiful here. The weather is warm and the general atmosphere is so quiet and laid back. There were only two other couples here over the weekend and we spent a lot of time just sitting out on the front porch and bullshitting with them. However, I'm relatively certain the others weren't spinning tall tales when they talked about their lives. Not that we were. Because I really am a teacher in a montessori school. And Gina really does own an art gallery. Just not in this life.

We took a walk late last night and found ourselves watching the stars from the dock over the lake out back. Which is the same place that the daughters of the inn's owners found us around seven thirty this morning. Apparently, we fell asleep during a lull in conversation, though neither of us can remember exactly when. I think we were awake for the sunrise, but that may have been a dream. It's literally been years since I slept outside like that. Hell, it's been years since I've felt as...I don't really want to say carefree -- because I'm not -- but that's the closest word I can think of.

Today has been...Interesting. I may have, um. Gotten my...Nipple pierced. It was Gina's idea and she challenged my manhood by telling me I was too pussy to go through with it. So, naturally, I had to do it. It fucking hurts like motherfucking hell. I have it covered with gauze just so I can wear a shirt without screaming in agony. I convinced her to get her navel pierced in a sort of attempt at retaliation, but I still think I got the fucking raw end of the deal. I wonder if this one will last longer than the tongue piercing I had a year and a half ago. I had that for a month or two before I had to take it out to film Gigli -- which is now Tough Love, by the way.

Oh, and we got married this afternoon. But the nipple piercing is really the big news of the day, I think.

...No, I'm not kidding, so don't even ask if I am.

25 Fuckers|The fuck?

disclaimer
[13 Apr 2003|07:54pm]
[ mood | trendy ]

So I'm a trendy motherfucker. What of it?

26 Fuckers|The fuck?

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