Why not Gelato?

The film The Cake Eaters was probably made for various bona fides, feminist and various modes of exploitation, with Kristen Stewart's Goth fragility the modus operandi on forbidden loves that have worn smooth Bram Stoker's headstone. I did not link her from Masterson's quiet slice of life ensemble to the Twilight saga, and I am not sure why this earlier sobering vehicle had to be made. Flawed people coping with loss and absence, chronic conditions that make us lust, invest far too heavily. Running from mortality staring us in the face. Kristen certainly seems to have the genotype to be stricken with a future degenerative unraveling, but she serves Masterson's desire for eye candy over and above the honesty about the human body in its bare essentials, the calluses on our shins and elbows, the shame of obesity and diarrhea. In the notoriety of tradition, the wry British comedy of manner attempts a close scatological scene, but I am not sure how much it contributes to the nuanced wickedness of our pleasure as we engage the characters. We cannot visualize these things on a strip of film that is created with lenses capturing scenes and jump cutting, then lenses again projecting them onto a surface, not without a wince and a strong constitution. All cinematic representation is a lie in this sense, a vanity motivator to defy biology, to enforce self hatred.

I may be old enough to worry about our transformation into a digital world, but not quite old enough to say that the visual medium has had far too much impact on my self image, lacking any telegenic appeal myself. WPVI, ABC's affiliate for my region, did film me for Liberty Resources Inc when I was a fresh face, and it did nothing for me, simply an unremarkable homily face whose eyebrow ridges and grandfather's pudgy nose did no favors. Every year, the cycle of heat waves punishes me more and more, whether or not I engage my creditors, the account holders of my pithy federal debt. Horrible cramps, trots leaking, and I revive long enough to rinse liquid stool, and voila, like magic, the shower pipes for the 14's, the units where Riverside houses most of its wheelchair users, springs a leak into my ex fiance's studio, and the custodial employee who has seen me naked almost as often as Frank, the vilified ex in question, knocks on my door while I am trying to mitigate having soiled myself. These leaks are systemic; if I transfer and shower Frank's drop ceiling saturates and caves in, but we will try it your way, that I have lived in this section 202 senior living facility since I was 34 because I was exposed to systemic trauma in the other one adjacent to Temple's campus, and I am so strong that I have not snapped out yet and deliberately defaced a unit, or in this case, my unit, to get carted off in a facility that would constrain me under lock and key, and haven't quite yet resorted to attempted murder. Edward Snowden and Georgie boy are national bywords, and homosexuals neigh that I should "get help,"  a codex for not seeing that my symptoms require it. I'd love to work, to develop my thesis, to apply for jobs I will not get because my appearance screams that I've been brow beaten by indigence. Only in the United States. Mass murderers and paranoid racial profilers, and paranoid data systems analysts gain instant celebrity. If I advocated for a fascist revival Eric Holder wouldn't bat a damn eyelash. My soul is screaming to run; it wouldn't change a damn thing.