Head in a box
I finished watching Seven, directed by David Fincher, today. Finally, after years of only the first half, I completed it. Dismal backstory for you on the forefront of this blog; I started this movie on December 21st, 2018. Part way through, whatever was in the small chalky yellow pills I’d acquired the night before kicked in heavily and I became extremely depressed. Turned the flick off and woke up with two-dozen slashes on my arms and handcuffs on my wrists. Hospital gown on over my boxers and a very grey set of parents on rickety waiting chairs. Angry that I was ali- that I was awake in a hospital. Missed Christmas. Never made it to the end of the film. After seeing it pop up on my Amazon Prime for the hundredth time, today I did. Grateful now, not only that I’ve lived past the age of eighteen, but also that I’ve made it to the end of the film with the lenses I have on now versus then. I wouldn’t have appreciated it then in the way I did today. That December all those years ago, I st...