Somewhere along the map that is my life I may stop writing about/gushing over/fantasising about Joaquin Phoenix.
That time isn't now.
So, basically, I've been a fan ever since that fateful Saturday night at approximately 9.30 p.m. on October 21, Year Two Thousand. 8MM on HBO, starring Nicolas Cage as a detective of sorts (I can't remember to be honest) tracking down a girl who appeared in a snuff film to, I don't know, find out something or other about her. I don't remember the plot details; I only remember Max California and his tattoos and his blue hair and his skin-tight PVC pants and his body-hugging sleeveless tops and his eyebrow ring and his backstory and his gruesome death. I remember thinking, "An actor that good-looking cannot possibly be so talented!" (His death scene broke my heart and made me hate Nicolas Cage's character for failing to give a damn about his kind-hearted, good-natured buddy.) Because, you know, most young and good-looking actors usually can't act for shit, and there he was, someone so flipping hot who totally fed my then-penchant for punk-rock types and when the credits rolled I made it a point to commit to memory the name of the actor who played Max California. I Yahoo!-ed his name, and the rest is history.
The only line I still remember from that movie, my favourite quote for a couple of years, is one of Max's: "Dance with the devil and the devil don't [sic] change; the devil changes you." God, I quoted that line to death, back when I was 15.
And I wrote some descriptive essay thing on Joaquin when I was 15 and received full marks for it. "You captured the essence of Joaquin Phoenix," my teacher wrote.
To be fair, he was a huge inspiration. Celebrities don't come as genuine and reluctant as him, most men only hope that they're half as beautiful as he is, and he's the perfect counter-balance to the mostly-left wing, fiercely non-conformist female singleton for whom men are bland and boring at best.
If the perfect person had a face, it would be Joaquin's.
And yet - all these talk about essence and perfection, as if I have him pegged. The only things I know about him are what he chose to reveal in interviews and magazine articles, and even then, these things aren't constant. He said so himself in an interview he did for GQ Magazine in June 2000, that he wasn't (and isn't) defined by the things that he says.
And, you know, as a rational, intelligent person, I totally get that.
BUT I STILL CAN'T HELP IT. The more interviews I read, the bloody harder I fall. He's like an addiction: Just when you think you're finally out, he does something mind-blowing and pulls you back in. And once you're started on him, you can't quit him, no matter how hard you try. But why do you even want to try? He's amazing and he's the closest thing I have to a "muse".
He makes me want to dream which in turn makes me want to write.
I've decided that one of my goals in life is to meet him. Ah, hahaha.
He has this beautiful face that takes gorgeous, gorgeous photos. Those eyes are the most beautiful eyes ever, and this picture shows that they are pure liquid.
Sigh. Joaquin Phoenix, take me away!
I bought a James Dean shirt on eBay and I wore it yesterday. The print doesn't do him justice, the material of the shirt is fucking cheap (it's an official shirt too, damn), and it's too figure-hugging for my liking, but hell, I love my shirt anyway. I've always wanted a James Dean shirt. He's still my idol, after all these years. And the only reason I feel comfortable about idolising him is because he's dead. Haha.
Moots practice yesterday was my most humiliating experience in law school to date.
I have no words. I think, at one point in time, I genuinely wanted to cry.
And whenever I think about it, I also get the urge to cry.
I won't be very pleasant company in school for a while. The mere reminder of those humiliating 12 minutes is enough to induce suicidal tendencies in me.
I wanted to say, "Dude, why the fuck are you asking me these fucked up questions?"
I also wanted to say, "What the hell am I even doing here?" and pack my things and leave.
And naturally, I thought up the most perfect comeback to one of their questions hours after the fact. The question was, What is your authority for saying that "the delivery of the child" clearly refers to the actual delivery date of the child?
If I weren't a bundle of nerves and nothingness, I would've said, "With all due respect your honour, you don't need an authority to know the meaning of basic English words."
It's so different sitting back and listening to other people moot and to actually do it yourself. When I'm the audience, I listen to the questions posed and I nearly-always have a nice, eloquent answer composed in my head; but when it's me under fire, facing the relentless firing squad, my mind goes completely blank. And if the first question choked me, I remain choked for the rest of the time, all the way until I'm fucking asphyxiated (I hope I spelled that right). And I'm swearing more than usual because it's the perfect way for me to convey my attitude towards the whole damn thing.
Naturally, running like hell away from it seems the most obvious option.
Time will eventually prove me wrong.
Back to Joaquin because he's a happy thought and I kind of need that now.
He'd make an awesome vampire. Have I ever mentioned my fascination with vampires? I will die a happy virgin if he makes a great vampire movie right now.
I have a way out of this whole law school mess, just not the money to pay for it. And if things are as simple as choosing one over the other then something is quite wrong if I keep feeling like England is an escape and not a real choice. And it's too easy to escape, that much harder to face your demon, and for once, I don't feel much like escaping anymore.
I want to go to Los Angeles. I think the fact that Joaquin lives there now has 90% to do with it.
I liked it better when he lived in New York. I still want to - need to - go to New York. And I just realised how little sense the first sentence of this paragraph makes.
I fell asleep watching American Idol last night and slept from 9 to 10.30 after that. I hate Paris Bennett and Lisa Tucker and I abhor Kellie Pickler, and these three are definitely going to be in the top 12. It's so predictable. Every week I know for sure who will be voted out (except Patrick Hall - that was a huge surprise and it saddened me) and I think I like less than 20% of the contestants this season.
Kellie Pickler positively grated on my nerves last night. Seriously, what the hell is with that "I'm this adorable ignoramous!" act? Simon disgustingly called her a "naughtly little minx" and she was like, "I'm a mink!" complete with bimbotic laughter and I was like, WHAT? It wasn't even funny. And I hate the way Simon is so in love with her; it's disgusting and creepy and for once, I'm this close to losing respect for Simon Cowell. The things he says to her are just retarded, almost in the same league as Paula Abdul's useless remarks. The way he fawns over her and calls her "likeable" (HUH?) is the creepiest thing I've ever seen. I won't be surprised if scandal says one day that he and Pickler are having an affair.
Ugh. Ew. Totally disgusting.
Paris continues to annoy (what the hell was she even wearing?) and Lisa is boring. Or maybe I just have a thing against 16-year-olds.
Speaking of which, I fucking hate Kevin whatshisface. That stupid joke that he made Katharine McPhee (who's like, 21) pregnant was DISGUSTING. Please get off my TV screen ASAP. Thank you.
Another guy I can't stand? Will whatever. And guess what? He's 16 too!
That proves it, then. I'm a horrible ageist (just pretend there's such a word and that I'm using it correctly). Like I even give a damn.
Can't wait for Singapore Idol to start; laughing at Singaporeans attempting to sing is a million times better than laughing at Americans doing likewise. Singaporeans are hilarious.
I'm going off to indulge in Joaquin bliss now.
And I was supposed to read criminal this afternoon. HAHAHA. I should stop aiming for the impossible.
(What am I doing? No idea.)