And so the journey of one’s rubbishness begins.

Oh, hello there. You might want to make a hot chocolate before you read the following essay (read: rubbish) because it’s long and disturbingly profound (read: nonsensical ramblings).

Little do men perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth. For a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love.

-Francis Bacon-

A stream of consciousness, raw fragments, basically an attempt to reflect her flaws and contradictions through series of ramblings. Before you go any further, she would like to warn you that she rarely reblogs pictures and gifs.

Indonesian. February 15th. Fascinated by the idea of con artists and heist movies/series, thinking one day she could steal those impressionism paintings and display them in her house so she could illegally sell them to the highest bidder, of course she would first create a group of con artists. Kidding.

Questions her fickle fortune every now and then, thinks that her life is exactly like a broken roller coaster, stuck in the bottom and slowly-not-so-surely rides to the top, so the sky is still far away to reach. She likes to view life as a movie to make herself feels better. If a bad day arrives, she’d imagine a soundtrack playing in her mind and convince herself there’s always better days lurking around the corner.

Often sees herself as either a failed idealist or retired perfectionist or maybe a delusional epicurienne. She also likes to think that Britta Perry is her alter ego.

Doesn’t know why she’s talking in third person.

Doesn’t limit herself in music. Hey, life is already tough as it is, why not dance around? A simple medium to easily experience a peace of mind. Loves many bands and singers, mainly listens to A.C.Jobim, Stan Getz, Sting, Michael Buble, and John Mayer.

On to the next blahblah assuming you’re still reading this: she loves spending time alone by diving into written words. There’s too many of fave books and authors she couldn’t even cite (that, or she’s just being lazy). She likes how description about the character’s feelings, scene, ambiance, and the choice of words by the author can take her to somewhere she would’ve never imagined.

As a proud couch potato, watching her fave TV shows and movies are a daily activity. She likes how movies capture the intense (and raw if the director happens to be a genius) emotion and turmoil all human beings feel, in a way she finds a solacement through the characters in the movie. [One could easily say she lives vicariously through characters from her fave books and movies.]

Paul Newman, Day Lewis, De Niro, Vincent Cassel, Mads Mikkelsen, Christian Bale, Viggo Mortensen, Tilda Swinton, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Penelope Cruz, Catherine Keneer, Juliette Binoche, Romain Duris, Guy Pearce, Tom Hiddleston, and Louis Garrel are her fave movie stars.

Currently having several affairs with Jon Hamm, Ralph Fiennes, Clive Owen, and Guillaume Canet because her husband, James Franco, is often away. Whenever she has a free time for herself, she usually flies with her jet to her own island named after her middle name. There, she spends her time in a little castle surrounded by beautiful nature and breathtaking view. She regularly visits her chocolate-slash-library cafe in Vienna called Vague Soliloquy, where youngsters often frequent to talk about pseudo-philosophical conversation. She then flies to Bordeaux to check on her vineyard, Le Paradis Pseudo, and she invites her closest friends Angelina Jolie, Claire Forlani, Cate Blanchett, Rachel Weisz and Emily Blunt to taste the wines that are produced from her own vineyard. Before going back to her daily routine, she makes a short visit to John Mayer’s house because she’s his number one muse. Sometimes Joel McHale and David Tennant call her whenever they’re feeling lonely. Also she frequents at an anonymous pub with Craig Ferguson.

And after all that jazz, reality slaps her hard in the face and tells her to wake the hell up and to stop daydreaming. The world’s a joke, laugh a little. It helps.

Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

-Shakespeare-

A vrai dire je ne sais pas encore ce que je suis, mais je sais ce que je ne suis pas. Choses qui sont deja passees, en train de se passer et se passeront, toutes me permettent de savoir et comprendre le plus profond ce dont j’ai envie et besoin, ce que je suis et je serai. C’est vous qui devinez a dire.

There is an idea of a me; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable…, I simply am not there.

-Brett Easton Ellis-

Do you ever feel simultaneously bored and amused for no apparent reason?