an evening of warm, self-inflicted nausea. to romeo and juliet, with johnny, maya, and alina. debated the overbearing music with johnny, who thought it appropriate. though i first recoiled at this proposition, i now reconsider a bit. there is something in middle-school love that, to be faithful, requires some good measure of nausea to make it work. i suppose i just found it unpleasant to enter that skin again.
i find i can appreciate the skill and genius of artworks on a separate plain from my enjoyment of them. Example: momento: brilliantly done, but centered around a character i was meant to loathe or pity, left me depressed and dejected.
counter: 10 Things I Hate About You: i recognize that this is not a work of artistic brilliance on the level of momento by any means, but i enjoy it far more, i must admit, because i empathise with and admire the protagonist.

my faith in my ability to continue living and thriving in this world rests much on a sort of logical practice of my intellect. too often i realize though that my intellect plays servant to my desires: i found myself so in need of a bathroom tonight that for 15 minutes another thought could not enter my head. I could not speak sanely nor conduct myself in any reasonable way. Similarly, after partaking in a similarly glorious self-inflicted nausea from devouring too many pesach deserts, I could not more nor think properly, but as entirely consumed with digestion. often when hungry i find it difficutl to think of anything else than my need for food, unless i am in the midst of a conscious effort of abstinence such as a fast.
some try to master these desires, and place their intellects once more upon the throne. others embrace their desires as their rightful kings and revel in their rule. which path to take?