Rationality says get up, but my atrophied muscles ask who gives a shit. Of course I’m aware that I own this movie. My copy resides somewhere within my trove of never-unpacked boxes, full of unsellable textbooks and pogs, that have migrated with me from garbage apartment to garbage apartment.
No question, it’s a top-notch flick. One would be hard pressed to find a more gripping combination of story and unabashed nudity. Ownership of this unrated edition is an honor—yes, an edition so jammed with carnage, genitals, and butthole shots that they were unable to safely rate it. Though I remain still; inertia and chronic indigestion keep me firmly rooted in my vinyl crevasse.
What keeps me here, tolerating a commercial-riddled and watered-down version of this violent, erotic romp?
Have I become so lethargically fat and sassy that I justified it’s not worth the effort to sit up and walk the fifteen steps to find it?
Subconsciously have I grown to finally feel shame for the invasive pockets of stale air that are liberated whenever I unearth my lumpy body from the couch?
Do I just have an unexplored fetish for profanity masked by poorly dubbed, almost, non-sequiturs like “ninja, please” or “eat my astronaut, wickless”?
Short answer no. Long answer no preceded by a fuck.
This dilemma’s roots lie in my unwillingness to commit. I can’t be tied down. There’s no room for dedication if I’m ever going to actualize my dream of drifting like a leaf from town to town while solving mysteries and hustling pool.
It’s this nagging fear of missing out. I could stay on this channel or pop in my copy and have a moderately enjoyable time. It’d be a mild delight—on par with discovering there’s still time left on a parking meter or putting on a brand new pair of tube socks. Though while I’d be invested, passively enjoying the predictable ride through the indecisive heroine and the farting old lady slipping on the banana peel, I’d be stuck obsessing over what my monogamy is causing me to miss.
Be it network television or the deepest depths of cable, my ever-decreasing attention span can’t get enough of television’s storm of noise, bare skin, and violence. Crime dramas, sports bloopers, Al Roker tributes, I need it all, and I need it all in no-strings-attached encounters. I’m an absolute whore for entertainment. I just want to pop in, chuckle at Gordon Ramsey berating some hapless set of contestants, and move on to surfing through middle-aged women throwing wine at each other, father-centric Maury surprises, or Gordon Ramsey berating a slightly different set of people.
This needs to be kept casual. I’m not ready to settle down. Playing the field is too much fun, every channel indulging a different whim. Maybe it’s selfish, adding to inaccuracies in the Nielsen ratings like that, but I only care about myself, a free spirit unencumbered and unwilling to commit.
Movie, I’m sorry. It’s not you; it’s me.