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March 5, 2001

Iíve discovered what I want to be in life, and itís the mysterious love interest in an indie film.  Yes, I wanna arrive about a third of the way in the story, all dark looks, chain smoking, trying to hide panicked eyes with a semi-shady back story.  

And I'd have really thin arms.  Like Lara Flynn Boyle thin. I want to be mysterious.

  I want to be doing my own thing when the main character (who is desperate, clueless and sculpted with impossible muscles, and tousled brown hair) bumps into me. I want my voice to be a husky whisper tinged with whiskey and cigarette smoke.  I want him to think Iím deeply wrapped in circumstances of my own, like trying to get away from my abusive boyfriend, or conned into helping someone rob a bank.  I want to look troubled, and trapped.  I want him to see me and want to help.  I want to protest, no get out of here, youíll get out of town if you know whatís good for you.  I want him not to know whatís good for him. I want him to be driven mad with the thought of me.  I want to get under his skin to where he'll scratch up his arms with the itch of me.  I want him to give up everything he has just to hold me.  For the promise of loving me.  I want him to watch me when weíre in the same room, I want him to miss me when I leave.  I want him to wonder about me, what Iím doing, how can he find me.  I want him to do everything possible to get back to me.   I want him to want me.