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Last weekend, I went and saw a midnight showing of Sex and the City: The Movie. For this rant, I will refer to it as The Movie, with the capitalized first letters like it’s some divine deity because that’s what it is. And plus it’s easier to type than the actual 6 worded movie title.
So anyway, on the way to The Movie, I was ecstatic on the car ride to the theatre, I shone with adoration when I saw the movie poster at the theatre, and I stifled giddy giggles when the girl at the counter handed me my tickets for the theatre. But after approximately an hour inside the actual theatre, I was stifling yawns and glancing at my watch every time there was a wardrobe change in the movie.  
I am a raging SATC fan, I even sound a little like Carrie when I write; fucked up neurotic and searching beyond the daddy issues. I idolize the show and I remember every little detail of the 6 years that that show had. So when the movie turned out the way it did, well fuck me like a jackrabbit, was I ever disappointed.

The thing that makes SATC what it is, to me, is the quirky realities that it talks about, like the way a guy gets his kicks when he calls you a slut in bed, or like about when you have your first shit at your new boyfriend’s house after an era of constipation, or how a friend doesn’t want to pay you back for your 400$ Manolos because having them stolen at her place doesn’t make it her fault, you know, things like that. It was the quirk and the clothes that always made me come back for more, and The Movie lost its quirk and tried to make it up through the clothes. That was the only thing about The Movie that cheered me up: the clothes. And the bags. And the shoes, oh holy God, the shoes. And that heavenly Vivienne Westwood wedding dress spun out of cotton candy and angel hair and fairy dust. They single-handedly saved The Movie.

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Sex. It’s in the title, but it’s not in the actual movie. Oh sure, they slipped in a few shower scenes and some hot steamy animal sex scenes in there so they could pass it off as a little ‘edgy’, but that doesn’t qualify for SATC. You know? SATC would show the parts where you slip and bump your head on the showerhead while fucking in the shower, or how hot steamy animal sex can lead to a few embarrassing pussy farts that kill the moment sometimes, and that’s what makes the show such a beautiful work of art: they talk about real people sex. Not movie people sex. That’s their edge and The Movie didn’t have it.
 
You want to know what else disturbed me about The Movie? John James Preston. Those three words make me shudder. I always knew him as Big. We had an anonymous, impersonal relationship and John James Preston makes everything so intimate. It's like he's an actual living, breathing human being. It freaks me out. The Movie oozed with drama and emotions and next to no laughable humor whatsoever and tons and tons of beautiful shoes. That freaks me out too. It’s as if Sex and the City: The Movie isn’t really what it is but merely a *gasp* chick flick. Oh the horror.

So the secret formula goes like this: SATC minus the quirk minus the edge minus the single and pre-Botoxed slash boob-jobbed Samantha Jones plus un-needed tearjerker-inspired scenes equals just another boring chick flick.
So was it a total waste of my sober time? Abso-fucking-lutely.

All this time, I've been ranting about things happening to me right now and who I'm fucking and what I'm reading but I've always avoided family talk because I've always classified my family under "just fine" in an attempt to cover up the denial and so this one is about just that, my family.
So let's recap. My parents got divorced a few years ago, live separate lives and my brother and I move around like nomads between parents. Stability is as non-existant as the dodo bird. And now here are some things I've observed while living this double life.

My dad.
He's "artistic" but a conservative. Lives at a house fully equipped with facilities and food. Has a personal driver and got married to a country 'socialite' his age with supposed 'royal blood' flowing in her veins. Over-appreciative in an attempt to always look like the perfect father and husband. Used to be as violent as a Tarantino flick. Delusional at times. Dabbles socially in politics. Kisses me goodnight every night and before I go out. Goes out with business men in brown leather blazers and Dior sunglasses who do 'brunch' and 'country clubs' and 'summer in Russia'. Has a deep George Clooney laugh and the charisma to go with it. He has shelf after shelf of books on philosophy and art and politics and his idea of a good time is going to the gym and karaoke. He's idealistic and he follows the rules and is disciplined and avoids 'bad karma'. Conversations about skin-peeling and body fat percentage and clothing material and interior decor are considered normal and not at all shallow.

On Friday night I went to a fashion show for a certain brand name that we'll call XOX. They were launching their line for 2008 and I got an invitation (kudos to working at a "hip" magazine). I didn't think my work clothes were too bad (because I was wearing my lucky brown leather ankle boots) so I didn't bring a change of clothes to work. And anyway, I'm a follower of the I'm-hot-so-I-can-wear-whatever-so-fuck-off philosophy pioneered by Cher or more recently pre-Paris-fallout Nicole Richie, but alas lemme tell you that philosophy is total bullshit. No matter how good you think you look, when you're in a room with tall, lanky, beautiful people, you still feel like Rob Schneider before a chest wax.

So anyway, the show itself was very very good, the designs for Women's Wear were fabulous. I can't find a pic but it was all mute colors and flowing materials and urban casual and I actually enjoyed myself and forgot about being a bitter old bitch for approximately 34 minutes. Then the actual show ended and we all went to the other room to "chat" and "catch up". And that's when the anti-social in me began to surface.

So apparently "chatting and catching up" with "socialites" basically means complimenting a random piece of clothing or accessory they're wearing, complimenting the show, ranting about some random minuscule problem in your life, nodding a lot, and giggling like a lunatic. In random order, of course.
Thank the Lord for the free flow sparkling wine.
Then I realized that half the people in the room were probably getting help from some sort of borderline acceptable medication (xanax, dumolit, valium, whatever) and I figured the only reason I wasn't enjoying this chit chat bullshit was because I was sober as a nun. So I started knocking down the free booze and after 3 glasses, I was happy.

I know. It's really sad that I can't enjoy a simple fashion show without the aid of mind-altering substances but oh well.  At least I got introduced to a couple of cool folks, and did I mention the free booze?
Oh. And an ex-boyfriend of mine, who is now a full-time model, was there working the runway and we got to chatting and catching up, but that's a whoooole other story.

I feel empty. My life has become a stable routine and I just want to go crazy. I think this is the phase where suicidal tendencies start to kick in. 

Kurt Cobain once said,"Teenage angst has paid off well. Now I'm bored and old."
How I wish I could say that I can relate, but the truth is I'm 22 going on 23 and I'm still suffering symptoms of ragingly infectious teen angst. I'm bored and I'm also getting old, but the teenage angst? Nope, still there, hanging on to dear life, not gonna go away and pay off well anytime soon.

I know for a fact that everyone in this wretched city of Jakarta feels the same way, whether they realize it or not. That's what Jakarta does to you, it hammers the nail in even deeper, so that bout of teen angst sticks with you until you involuntarily grow older than your years.
As if the pollution and gridlocked streets aren't enough to really grind you, the people and the whole system in general just tops it all off, like a rotten maraschino cherry on a dilapidated cake of corruption. Speaking of food, though, that's one thing about Jakarta that is good enough to be filed under "perk". One amongst a total of 6 perks, max. Maybe 7 if you count the cheap booze.

But anyway.

Every man, woman and child in this CO2 infested hellhole is bursting with angst. And the worst part is, this angst just keeps on building up, without any form of release and it just keeps mounting and mounting until it takes complete control of you.
When you hear about the 73-year-old man who rapes his 4-year-old niece, that's the angst acting out. And when you read about the loyal office employee who suddenly sells all his assets and hangs himself in his shoe closet, there's that angst again. Or what about the street hawker who cuts up sewer rats and sells it as beef on some street corner? Yeah, I bet I know what caused that, and it starts with an A.

The one and only good thing about angst is this: it turns you into a thoughtful and creative human being.
Maybe that's why Jakarta is so colorfully lively and yet so spontaneously dull: everyone's angry.
From poets to prostitutes to politicians, they're all connected together by one thing and Jakarta wouldn't be Jakarta without that thin red line we call anger.

Okay so I have this friend. Let's call her Em (she's a total tech retard and will probably never see this public entry on her, but still, let's call her Em).

The pressure's starting to get to me.
Getting paid to be a visual illusionist a.k.a. graphic designer is fucking hard work. I've just realized that I am not a designer, I'm an artist. And I don't want to get all Greta-Garbo-dramaqueeny but puh-leeze just fucking leave me alone! I don't like being told what to draw.

All this time, I've been a quote great unquote designer with quote great unquote designs, but really, they weren't really designs, they were just pieces of things that I had floating around in my brain that I decided to give birth to in visual form. Designs don't float around waiting to be born, they're created with concept and measurement and plans and all that boring shit, and alas, I can't fucking do that.
I don't plan, I do. That's like, my life motto, I carelessly base my every decision on those 5 words.
Hell, I've never planned for the major events in my life, let alone a fucking advertorial layout.

If I were an optimist, I'd say to myself, "There's a lesson to be learned from this. Maybe you'll become a more disciplined person in the end. Everything happens for a reason," but it's a good thing I'm not an optimist or I'd have to shoot myself in the head. The only justification I have for this torture is that the left hemisphere of my brain is a bit D.O.A. so I guess this kind of masochism will kinda do it some good, who knows, maybe it'll suddenly spring back up to life.

So anyway, this is a public entry so I guess I gotta do the whole "press-release-self-explanation-damage-control" thing so here goes; I'm not talking shit about the magazine I work at, I'm talking shit about selling your soul by pretending to be a designer when you're really a self-proclaimed wannabe Picasso.

I shouldn't be writing right now, I've been introduced to Satan's other spawn, the deadline. Must go back to my pseudo-job.

I went to Cork & Screw a few nights ago to catch up on a few friends. It was the first time I went there and I was expecting the stuff I read in the magazines: "a cozy laid-back place to wine and dine with friends". Hell to the no. The place was packed like Topshop on Midnight Sale Day. Some people were actually standing up, not waiting for a table, but like standing up while wining & dining. Crazy. The place wasn't at all like I hoped for. The food was divine though, but I had the beef lasagna, and that's no gourmet high-difficulty meal. I mean everyone can make good lasagna. Except for those who put spinach in their lasagna, that's just barbaric.
So anyway, I guess if it were a little less crowded and a little less bright and a little less stuffy and a little more wine & dine, it'd be okay. Like maybe if I went there at 11pm on a weekday or something (it was 7pm on a Thursday), I could actually enjoy the good (ish) food and the fine (ish) wine.

Just goes to show you the wonders of PR & marketing. Those folks could sell dog shit.

For legal justification purposes, I'm just saying this isn't a review, it's a personal experience. A not very good one.

I have always looked at big corporations and work in general as spawns of satan. This is because money is satan's bait and when you work, you're taking the bait. I've had jobs before, but I've always been bitter about them, I'd pretend I was a slave forced into labor by my grumbling needs for food and shoes, and thus I was working because I had to, not because I agreed with the whole concept of selling your skills for money.
If you read that whole paragraph over again you'd realize what an ironic paradox it is.
But anyway.
Today is my first day working at CosmoGirl as graphic designer. And I must shamefully admit that I'm loving it so far. I am actually enjoying myself. Thoroughly. It feels great to be a part of something and feeling like what you're doing actually matters, and not just to yourself.

So this is an introduction to my life as a capitalist.

I'd tell you about the girls that work here, but it's still my first day. I don't kiss and tell. Only after it gets to third base.