A purple sweater with white polka dots

So forgive me on this, but I'm slow when it comes to these things. Been subjected - no, that's not accurate. I've been present whilst a series of movies directed at the female of ze species, your "chick flick" so to speak, have been shown. First one with Reese's Pieces Witherspoon and this second with Sandra Boring-as-crap Bullock. Luckily I've had Azeroth and the defence of the Alliance lands against all manner of evil threats to keep my true attention. But in side glances and listening that's akin to poor evesdropping, I've figured out one thing. Or think I've figured it out. That all chicks want is to feel beautiful.

Well, at least in these films and their class, they do. Cause that's what seems to happen. The guy falls in love with the girl, forgetting her Hollywood-approved looks and botox-injected smiles and other enhanced protrusions, etc., because deep inside, they're beautiful people. Past their neuroses and craziness and supposed inability to keep up with hectic and difficult lives, somehow there's the dude who loves all this and this person that they've managed to uncover from the depths of ... the woman's mind. I'm lost at this point, but this is an epiphany for me. That all a girl supposedly wants is to feel beautiful. So if I manage this, I should have higher success, right? Well, in theory. Movie/Hollywood Approved Theory. Now if only to find a Catherine Zeta Jones supposedly real beauty who won't mind walking alongside someone who's mistaken for a terrorist purely based on the color of his skin.

I don't agree with these award ceremonies. Apart from my annual boycott of the Oscars, at least I do ... listen to their nominations - often inspiring me to watch some quality films, I have even less faith in those of the music industry. Anything, such as the grammies, that could, in its time, have chosen N Sync or their equivalent shit-mongers to be representative of the best that music has to offer needs to be disregarded and then flushed down into the sewage leading directly into the nearest black hole where it can exist in a moment of pain that extends towards eternity.

And between the emergence of the next war front in what seems to be Iran and Big Momma's whoreHouse, I get to wonder once more. Where am I sitting? In this world where creativity and hope seems to have died. Where nothing really makes sense - at least the way it works out. And that's what gets me every day. I have to make my choices and stick by it. And you don't know what's next - I suppose that's the magic. You just ... see what comes. And come what may, you keep on going.

Till another moment of solitude inspires me to speak beyond this mind's walls.