I've never been the type to be the leading lady.

I'm the character, the supporter, the third billed.

And I like it that way.

Keep me out of the idiocy and load of emotional bullshit. Give me a pair of glasses, or get me shot early on, hell, I'll settle for just some sense. I hate it when people do stupid things. Just let me be me and don't drag me into your problems, your loves, your fights, your human bullshit. Give me something to do, something to say, something solid to be.

So many times I've read "on the outside looking in". To me, that's backwards. We're all inside, looking out. All in our little shells of flesh, all looking at the other shells and thinking we're really seeing something that is someone else. Maybe, for some people, people who are so wrapped up in their outsides, who define themselves that way, we are. But even those people have something they're hiding. We all hide something. The more we say we have nothing to hide, the bigger and more shameful the secret. Or maybe we're just all so scared to say what we really think and feel and to be who we really are. And that's because nobody wants to know, or really cares. We're all selfish and care mostly about the outsides because that's what w e see and believe. And that's what people look at. What will it look like if I . . . Nobody really cares about what's inside another person except in the way that it affects him. "It doesn't matter that you love, unless you love me." Don't love me.

Are you internal? Or external?

There are whole worlds within my head.

I have lived and loved and lost and died so many times. I have had nothing and I have had everything. So many lives, but none of them mine.

In my head, there is a man. Slowly, I see more pieces of him. Slowly, he becomes more real. He started out a mass of darkness. He was featureless, nameless, everything and nothing. The only thing that mattered was that he is.

I look for him in every man I meet. I look for his eyes, for his voice, for his thoughts, for his dreams, for his name, for anything to define him. Anything -- just let me find him, and know it when I do.

It's crazy, this way that I switch from romanticism to cynicism without any apparent reason.

For a while, I've been cynical. I generally feel that way, but there are pockets of time that I forget that. I'll see a flower and start thinking about how it looks like a star that abandoned the cold heavens for warm earth. Then, I come to my senses and step on it.

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