back up blog

The thing is, is that she is so flawed. And that is… appealing, to me. I’m talking about Mickey, in the Netflix show LOVE – a series I finished last night. I started to write a Tweet about it, to talk out all the wild, enthusiastic, confused thoughts I had on watching the final credits roll, but knew it would become twelve Tweets. Then I thought, yeah but Laura, why do you care so much? So I figured I’d do what I do: blog it out. My neurons are firing at a million miles per hour over this show. The premise is insanely simple: over ten episodes, two imperfect, normal characters meet in a weird, totally plausible way, struggle to get together in a straightforward manner, do a bit of back and forth, and then come clean about being into each other. We’re left wondering what will happen next, if anything at all. It is messy and complicated and exactly like real life. I’m working on a couple of scripts myself. I’m so terribly, terribly bored of writing about me and ~my feelings~, but I am ...

He kissed my neck before he kissed anywhere else. Loitered – lingered – close, beside my ear, so that I could feel his breath warm my ear against January cold on the meander home. That takes confidence, lingering. Teasing. This was before I learned that the ones who get a bit tongue-tied, the ones who are a bit unsure, are actually the ones with the biggest hearts. The kindest thoughts. The most honourable intentions. But on this afternoon at half past six, I hadn’t learned that yet. I kissed him back, the part-time rapper. We’d sat opposite each other for five hours, talking over red wine and pale ale from the bottle, and the Saturday afternoon passed. I’d almost cancelled. I almost cancel every date I eventually go on. Last week I had a horrendous break out across my chin, angry red boils in competition with each other for attention, PMS at its ugliest, and it made me want to cancel the 4 p.m. coffee with the twinkly-eyed actor. But I didn’t. It felt important not to. It felt importa...