What’s in a Name?


What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;

What is in a name, dear old Juliet? You speak of forbidden love, but honey that don’t even scratch the surface of the issue. Capulet and Montague aren’t the only names that carry baggage here.

My name has baggage, and I’m not just talking about how everyone keeps singing that damn Drake song at me. Kikí, as you may or may not know, is a nickname for Angeliki. Αγγέλικη, actually. Named for my dad’s mom.

As you can imagine, (or remember, if you were there), the first day of school always sucked for me. Sometimes even the second and third days, too. And for some particularly careless teachers, it sucked all the way into second semester. Angelicka. Angelica. Angelique. The list goes on and on. Some people, despite constant insistence to just call me Kikí, continue to attempt to pronounce my full name.

Just don’t.

Some things need to be left alone, and my name is one of them. Because it’s not just my name, it’s my Yiayia’s name. I know you just want to be able to do it, prove you can or whatever, but repeating my name over and over gets annoying for me, and hearing it be mispronounced over and over again starts to grate on me and even feel a little bit disrespectful. Not just to me, but my Yiayia.

Call me Kikí. I don’t even mind if you get the accent wrong, because yes, it’s supposed to go on the second syllable. Not a must, but kind of a suggestion. I do not begrudge someone being unable to pronounce my full name. I get that it’s difficult, because the sound that the “γ” makes doesn’t appear in the English language and it’s a hard thing to learn. But I have a nickname for a reason, and that reason is to make your life easier. Yet all y’all be out here gettin’ your knickers in a twist trying to say my name. Don’t.

Legally, my name is Angeliki Moussetis, and I have no intention to change that. I’m proud of my name and I love being named for my grandmother. But I introduce myself as Kikí and I go by Kiki Moussetis in all my professional work, and there’s a reason for that. The reason being that it’s just simpler for all involved and saves me trouble. So save yourself some trouble. Call me Kikí.

And I swear if ONE MORE PERSON asks me if I love them, if I’m riding, or to “have a Kiki”, or “how’s the delivery service” I SWEAR I WILL LOSE IT.




I Think I’m Becoming Positive

I would never have said that I was a particularly negative person. And yet- my perspectives on myself and what I spend my time doing have, as of late, been negative. I joke that I’m not a real writer, not a real filmmaker, not a real artist, whatever. Lately, I think it’s been getting to me.

I’m not a real writer, so why finish my novel?
I’m not a real filmmaker, so why struggle to make films?
I’m not a real artist, so why call what I do “art”?

I wouldn’t say it hit me all at once, but I kind of came to realize that my attitude was affecting my work. I always prided myself on not being someone who takes themselves too seriously, and to an extent that remains true. I have no intention of becoming some hum-drum that only talks about how messed up the world is. That’s completely unproductive and thoroughly annoying.

But I think I ought to give myself a little more credit than I do. I’ve made half a dozen or so short films, and worked dozens of hours on sets. So yeah, I’m a real filmmaker. I’ve written hundreds of pages of this damn book and I’m so close to finishing a draft that I can taste it. So yeah, I’m a real writer. Writing and filmmaking are art forms, so hell yeah, I’m an artist.

I think I’m becoming one of those ~positive people~. And not in the way that I have been, which is where I make jokes when things are terrible. (The more terrible things are, the more jokes I make. I can draw a graph, if that would help.) And definitely not in the *everything will be okay* way because that’s impractical and dangerously reductive. I mean genuinely positive. Like, I think I know what I want to do with my life? And maybe… how to do it? I know it’ll be hard but I feel like I… can handle it?

Halfway through film school and I finally feel like I really know where I am and where I want to be. Maybe it’s a passing thing, and tomorrow I’ll wake up feeling lost again. But if anything, that makes writing this down now all the more important, so when I start to doubt myself again I can look back at this and remember that yes, I do know what I want to do, and yes, I am doing it right now. Literally, right now. I’m sitting in class as I write this. (Maybe if I were really doing this right I’d be paying attention.)

But for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, I feel so confident and so right with what I’m doing. I want to tell stories, and I know how to tell them. And it’s a good feeling. I hope that you can find that same sense of purpose, dear reader, in something important to you, whatever that may be.


Not pictured: Me
Pictured: my sister, looking cool on a bench in Greece while I sacrifice proper exposure for that JJ Abrams Lens Flare

A Little Bit of Bubblegum

I dyed my hair pink. That much is plain to see.

Previously, I had only ever dyed the top part of my hair, which makes sense when you consider how long I had a fade for. In high school I had my top varying shades of red for a while, then my freshman year of college I attempted to go silver. I say attempted because, unsurprisingly, my dark brown hair did not take too well to the process, and after two bleaching treatments thoroughly fried my hair and left it an ugly yellow, I just went bright purple for a while, then let that grow out.

Then I made a plan. Which is big, for me. I don’t plan. I’m lucky if I know what I’m going to do after whatever task it is that I’m currently doing. I was going to grow out my hair (for me that’s about chin length all the way around and this is the longest it’s been since the sixth grade) and dye it pink. Then purple. Then blue. Then green. And then… well let’s leave that one a surprise 🙂

I learned a couple of things in that chair. I mean, I was there for nearly six hours, so I would hope I got something out of it. Besides the pink hair. I learned that if you sit anywhere for six hours, you’ll start making friends, with other stylists, other clients, etc. People just chat, and a salon tends to be one of those great positive environments full of women that just want to compliment each other, like the girls’ bathroom in the club.

The comment I got the most? “OMG I love your hair it looks so nice but I would never be brave enough to do that!”

So here’s the thing about that: if you don’t like bright hair, fine. If you have or want a job that requires you to look more professional, fine. If you can’t afford to dye your hair or are worried about damaging it, fine. But if the only thing holding you back from doing something wild to your hair is fear? NOT FINE. Your hair, your body, your choice. It makes me so sad when people tell me that would love to cut their hair short or dye it but they’re just scared to do it. More often than not, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Honestly, people are more likely to compliment it than insult it.

Maybe I’m a little privileged because I live in an urban area where colored hair is as common as crime, but I feel like in general, people have bigger things to worry about than your hair. Plus, colored hair is a good ice breaker. People ask you about it. People remember you for it. And Uber drivers can always find you.

Frankly, you have your whole life to have natural hair, minus a little for going gray. There’s no better time to do something stupid with your hair than the now. And if it goes wrong- well, it grows back eventually.



The Importance of Being Earnest

Linked below you shall find the entirety hit Chinese soap opera 最特别的爱 (The Most Special Love). Linked in the description of that video are the individual episodes, the first two of which are subtitled. Maybe by the time you’re reading this the last episode will be subtitled too. Maybe not.

Just kidding it’s a web series I made for class. But you should watch it anyway, whether or not you speak Mandarin. Heaven knows I don’t.

What’s important to note is that this was nothing close to what was required for class. The standard for this project was a slideshow with a voice-over, maybe a filmed conversation if you were feeling fancy, and usually, it was clear in those projects that people were reading off of a script.

But when the first term of my sophomore year of university rolled around, and I cracked open that Fresh Textbook for my Chinese 104 class, I saw that “Relationships & Breakups” was one of the units we’d be covering. I joked to my classmate that we should make a soap opera in Chinese for our final project. She said she was all in.

From then on, my course was set, no turning back.

There would be no reading of lines from a script while photos of my summer vacation slid across the screen- no, we were going to do this and we were going to do it right.

Go big, or go home.

Script memorization, makeup, lights, microphones, and a two camera setup, and that was just the first episode. By the second episode we completely re-arranged my living room to vaguely resemble a hospital room, and by the third we had a cast of over half a dozen people, plus several crew members.

There was no reason for this. In fact, it was a lot of work, on top of an already over-full schedule. Not to mention the fact that it pissed off my classmates by raising the bar. (But my professor loved it, so who cares.)

But I had an idea. An idea that I thought was, if not particularly good, at least funny. I wanted to do it. And we have precious few opportunities to do the things we want to do in this life; it seemed wrong to pass it up.

So I did it. I put my all into it. I blocked out my weekends, stayed up late syncing audio, stood outside in nearly a hundred degree heat in a black shirt, long pants, and two sports bras because it was the only way I could make myself look convincingly masculine.

Why? Because anything worth doing is worth doing right. If I was going to do this, however stupid it may be, I wasn’t going to half-ass it. I said soap opera, and I meant it. So what if it didn’t help my grade? So what if it took ages? So what if it was utterly ridiculous? I did that. I set my mind to something and I did it, and I made it fun. That feat alone is something to be proud of.

If you’re going to do something, don’t just do it for the grade or because someone asked you. If you don’t care about it you may as well not even bother. But even if it’s something that’s basically pointless, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t give it your best shot. At least then you might learn something, and won’t be asking “what if I’d tried harder, what if I’d done better” etc.

I took a boring project and made it into something that I could be passionate about so that I could do it in earnest and with pride instead of out of obligation. I try to do this with everything in my life, but honestly nothing is as special as “The Most Special Love”.

Queer Eye For the Queers

What’s the point of Queer Eye? Ostensibly one would say it’s for entertainment, but with media being as saturated as it is, every piece starts to beg the question why. Why this, why here, and why now?

The original show, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, came about in the early 2000s. The fear of contracting AIDS by breathing next to a gay man was subsiding, and America was in need of something to humanize us gays as something beyond ~fabulous~ drag queens and gay best friends.

But now it’s 2018, and things are better than ever for American gays. (I mean, they certainly aren’t ideal, when our humanity is still being questioned, we’re still being accused of being pedophiles, berated for being who we are, told we’re going to hell, and  being killed in the streets, not to mention lawmakers are constantly attacking our rights and allowing for discrimination in the workplace, but things are still better. At least now homosexuality isn’t a legally punishable crime, so hooray! Big win for us there. If you aren’t catching the sarcasm by now I’m legally allowed to smack you.) So why bring back the show now?

The answer I’ve arrived at is simple: it’s not for “the straight guy” anymore. It’s for us. Us being the LGBTQ+ community.

We’re not trying to prove our humanity anymore, or show how well we can get along with straight people. All we want is to know that we can make it in the world, that we can have successful careers and happy relationships without concealing who we are. That’s what the Fab Five does for the community. They are five distinguished men who have risen to the tops of their respective fields, started families, and been able to be open about who they are.

Yes, the Fab Five makeover their (usually straight male) clients, and while they tease the people they work with about the habits of straight men and joke about how homos do it better, they also tell stories about how they got to where they are. And for a lot of LGBTQ+ youth who are wondering if they’ll ever be able to make it in the world, that’s exactly what they need to hear. They inspire young queer people just by existing as they are. We don’t necessarily need to know how to make guacamole or tidy a space, we just want to know that there are people just like us who actually made it.

The Fab Five don’t just affect the lives of their clients, but their viewers, and in ways much more profound than a new wardrobe or a haircut. (Although those are both very profound and life-changing experiences, Tan and Jonathan- you’re doing great sweeties. Bobby, Antoni, and Karamo, you too. Keep it up.)


The Value Of Traumatizing Children

WAIT WAIT WAIT I know it sounds bad, but bear with me a moment. I don’t mean PHYSICALLY traumatizing your children, I only mean psychologically traumatize them! Alright so that’s not better. But seriously, bear with me on this.

Lately I’ve been trading childhood stories with some friends of mine. You know, buddies. Pals. Amigos. I have some of those. Anyway, more and more I’ve been realizing that mine and my sister’s upbringing may have been… unorthodox, to say the least. That’s a long story, but there’s one aspect in particular that I want to focus on, and that aspect happens to be stories themselves.

Every child that’s raised in a semi-decent home gets told stories. Usually, the stories parents choose are tailored specifically for children. But not my parents, no no. They decided that any story could be a children’s story simply by virtue of being told to a child. Case in point: Greek mythology. Most everyone knows that most every Greek myth ends in horror or tragedy or cruel irony and are perhaps the farthest thing from Disney movies as you can get.

Let’s sidebar for a moment so I can really impress this upon you. Since I brought up Disney, we’ll stick with it for a moment. Disney’s Hercules follows the son of Zeus and Hera, who gets tricked by Hades, as he falls in love with a human named Meg and battles the Titans. It ends with him saving the world and getting the girl and learning what it means to truly ~be a hero~ and so on and so forth. The true story of Hercules is such: Zeus (per usual) slept with a mortal woman who bore a child. Zeus knew that Hera, his freakin’ wife, wouldn’t be happy, so he had the baby named Herakles to honor her. But Hera was not pleased. She plagued his youth with multiple attempts on his life, then finally, when he was married with three children, she sent a madness upon him that drove him to murder his wife and children. All his adventures? Penance for his crimes. His life ended when his second wife, tricked by a centaur, gave him a poisoned tunic that burned him so badly that he leapt into a fire.

Take a guess as to which story my parents read to us.

All our books of myths were the real deal, no kiddie stuff. Atalanta? Turned into a lion after her wedding for failing to pay homage to Aphrodite. Narcissus? Wasted away staring at himself. Niobe? Watched all fourteen of her children murdered in front of her because she slighted Leto. Phaeton? That boy was blasted out of the sky because his stupidity was going to destroy the world.

Thing is, little baby me didn’t register this as being strange. This was just how stories were, in my mind. It wasn’t until recently that I found out that this isn’t what one would generally call normal. Most kids get told stories where the endings are happy and the villains don’t matter.

So what? What’s the difference? Well, I think, at least, that this has affected my development. I skipped the disillusionment of finding out that Santa’s not real and not every story has a happy ending because I never lived under either of those illusions. (In our house, Santa was ~part of the spirit of Christmas~ not an actual person.) I don’t think I’m jaded or pessimistic because of it; in fact I think it’s the opposite. Instead of going through the ups and downs of believing in something then losing that faith, I’m able to start on a clean slate and work my way up, so to speak. If I start with the assumption that things will end badly, then there’s nowhere to go but up, right? Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s more important for kids to grow up happy and believing in happy endings. There’s always time for them to learn later, right? But I would’t say I was an unhappy child. You couldn’t even pin my current mental issues on this part of my upbringing, because my sister grew up the same way and she’s pretty functional. So what if she ate the storybooks? (That’s right, it’s call out time.)

Anyway, I’m not going to pretend that I know the best way to raise a child. I’m still half a child myself. But I think there’s something to be said about not lying to your children. Kids are smarter than they often get credit for, and they can handle more than you’d think. Just look at how dark some kids movies are! They can take it! And there’s no loss of childhood wonder, just a redirection of it. Maybe I’m just a little nuts for looking at a tree and thinking about how it might be a nymph in disguise. But I think we ought to give kids more credit than they’re getting. They’re not stupid, and I don’t think they’re done any favors by hiding reality from them. Bad things happen, they’re gonna learn sometime or other. May as well give them as much time as possible to figure out how to deal with it, and how to make your own happy ending.

PS: The only people who ever got happy endings in the myths were people who acted selflessly and without pride, putting others first and working hard. Frankly, if you ask me, that’s a much better lesson than just “be nice”.

PPS: Case in point, Admetus and Alcestis got a happy ending because they were literally willing to die for each other. Well, that and Herakles wrestled the physical embodiment of Death himself so they could live. See, it’s not all bad. Just punch Death in the face and everything will be fine. (Terms and Conditions may apply.)14107627_1060618800696283_3442762360669744485_o

You’ve Heard of Beat Your Face, Now Get Ready For…

BEAT YOUR BRAIN. Beat it like the Russian team in an American sports film.

It’s no secret that I don’t have a great brain. Anyone who spends more than a few minutes with me can figure that out. Yet I’m out here living my life, going to school (most of the time), getting gigs, chillin’ with friends, etc. How? I fight my brain.

Maybe it’s not a fistfight, but it is a fight. Being mentally ill really takes the phrase “your greatest enemy is yourself” to the next level, because accomplishing even the smallest of tasks becomes a battle. The best way I’ve found to get around that is by removing as many obstacles as possible between where I am and where I need to be.

Brain: you can’t get up

Me: alright well my clothes are on the floor by my bed, so I can just get dressed under my covers and see how I feel.

This is one of the earliest tricks I came up with. Sometimes just the notion of getting out of bed feels just as plausible as climbing Kilimanjaro, so I removed some of the difficulty. If my clothes for the day are in arm’s reach, as I almost always leave them the night before, I don’t need to get out of bed to get changed. Then once I’m dressed, I usually feel better, and I can get up. Or at the very least, all the moving around made me need to pee so I need to get up anyway. Then once I’m up, I can tell myself that I can just wash my face and make some tea and go back to bed if I truly feel so awful. Usually, after all that, I’ve convinced myself that going to class isn’t all that bad anymore.

Brain: you can’t make a sandwich

Me: fine then I’ll just stand in front of the fridge and eat pieces of cheese, deli meat, and lettuce until I’m full because it’s basically the same thing.

Where most people gain that “Freshman 15” in college, I actually lost a lot of weight from simple lack of eating. On bad days I just have no desire to eat and no energy to make myself anything. But sometimes you don’t have to make yourself something, and I’m not talking about ramen. Having things that I can eat with my hands, and not have to worry about doing the dishes later, has been a huge help. And it’s nothing fancy, either. Usually it’s just something like cheese, bread or crackers, and some kind of non-messy vegetable or fruit. Non-messy is key for me, since (like with the dishes) sometimes feeling like I’ll have a mess to clean puts a damper on my plan. So a lot of times it’s just eating an entire, un-cut cucumber, or pulling off leaves from a head of lettuce, or handfuls of spinach from a salad mix. Does it look ridiculous? Absolutely. But does it keep me alive? Yeah, so I don’t care how many times my roommates walk in on me with handfuls of greens.

But it’s not always as simple as that. On my worst days, no amount of exercising, healthy eating, or showering can make me feel better. These tricks aren’t some kind of cure-all; I still have the same chemical imbalances in my brain and I still spend many a day locked up in my room, unable to face the world. But I have a whole lot less of those days when I can trick myself into just one more task, and then one more task, and so on until I’m dressed with a full face of makeup, my bag packed, and a nice breakfast in front of me.

Am I wrong? Maybe. But, as pictured, even a broken clock is right twice a day. So it ain’t much, but it’s all I’ve got, and you have similar issues then I hope this could help you, even a little bit.


Am I Motivational Yet?

Me again, the Moussetis with the least amount of serotonin. Fun fact about me: I am, always have been, and always will be, that horse girl. You know the type. My childhood bedroom is absolutely plastered with horse posters, and I rode every week for over a decade. So like, I’m legit. I’m even going back to volunteer at my old barn soon in the hopes of riding at least once before school sets in.

So there’s this rule in horseback riding that I always really struggled with. Conceptually, it was simple, but in practice, I could never really get it down. The rule is as such:

Look where you want to go, not where you’re afraid to go.

I know it sounds like something you’d see written in brush script over a sunset on a poster in a high school counselors office. But it’s actually crucial to safe riding. Horses, you see, are clever beasts, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Above all they are empathetic to a fault, which means if you’re scared, they know, and since you’re the one meant to be in charge, it makes them scared.

Something else to consider is that horses generally can feel where you’re looking. On the one hand, this is great for sport. Proper jumping technique states that you should start looking at your next obstacle the moment your horse leaves the ground in front of your current one. That way you know where you’re going, and so does your horse.

But it’s a two-way street. If there’s a commotion, for example, that catches your attention and distracts you from what you’re doing, it will carry over to your horse. And horses, bless their hearts, are prey animals, and evolved to really favor flight over fight in stressful situations. (Which, as someone who has had to fight horses on multiple occasions, I am actually extremely grateful for.) So now both you and your horse are distracted, and your horse is likely to spook.

Now let’s play this out. If you’ve never had the distinct pleasure of riding a spooked horse, it goes a little something like this. First the horse startles, and sometimes that’s the end of it. You both take a moment to calm down and then you carry on. But other times, it gets worse, and your horse can take off. At this point your own fight or flight response kicks in, and that’s where our look-where-you-want-to-be concept becomes of the utmost importance. Because now it’s on you. Your horse is out of control, and you and everyone in your vicinity is in danger. What are you going to do? Look at the group of little girls learning how to lead a pony? Or at the stern woman cooling down a warmblood that looks like he costs more than most cars? Because if you’re looking at them, you can bet that your horse is too, and that’s the direction you’ll end up going.

So you look for where you need to go. You look for an empty space to let your horse run out or you look for a wall to stop them. ‘Cause wherever you look, that’s where you’re gonna end up. The same goes for looking down, if not more so, because looking down is the biggest no-no of them all in equine sports.

Alright, time to apply this to reality. You are the rider, your horse is your life, and everything else is… everything else. If you want your life to head in the right direction, you gotta look in the right direction, right? If you look at the problem, or the disaster, you’ll focus on it, get distracted by it, and end up running right into it. Instead, be aware of it, but only in your peripheral. Your focus needs to stay on where you want to go, so you can guide yourself there. And it doesn’t always work; sometimes that horse is gonna run wherever that horse is gonna run, and there’s nothing you can do about it. The only thing you can predict about life is that it’s unpredictable.

But even if something does go wrong, (you know, like tumbling off your horse and into the dirt) it’s better to fail knowing that you did everything you could rather than wondering if just maybe, if I’d done just this one little thing, it could have worked out. (In this metaphor, the ground is just a metaphor for just failing at something, not dying or anything. That’s a whole other matter.)

And that’s the principle. You look where you want to go, not where you’re scared to go, and that’s how you can guide your life in the right direction. Does it always work? No. But is it better than the alternative? So I’ve heard. Like I said, I’ve struggled with this concept, both in the literal and the metaphorical sense. I’ve hit the dirt my fair share, but that’s a risk we knowingly take when we set out on any endeavor worthwhile.


Major throwback pic here

Stop the Straights

Let’s get one thing straight: I’m not.

Old joke? Yes. Bad joke? Yes. Am I sorry? No. Am I straight? Also no. And that’s all that matters for now.

You may have heard that Scarlett Johansson was recently cast to play a transgender man in an upcoming film. My thoughts on this matter are extensive, and worthy of a post of their own, though it’s more likely that I’m going to make a video on it because it’s easier to YELL in video format. (Caps lock just loses its effect after a while, ya know?) But it brought into focus some of the friction between the LGBTQ+ community and the Straights.

I’ve been very vocal about my queerness basically ever since I came out, because hey, anything worth doing is worth doing loud, right? And lately that’s been taking the form of that brand of gay humor that essentially boils down to “straight people are the worst” and “down with cis” etc. (If you have to google what cisgender is, it’s probably you.)

Unsurprisingly, a lot of straighties don’t like this. The reaction is much like what happens when people of color make fun of white people, or when women make fun of men. It’s all “well not all straight people” and “we can’t help it” and so on. But I’m not sorry, and I don’t take it back.

‘Cause here’s the thing, chums. Our society has put in place structures that hold white people above people of color, men above women, and cis-straight people above any LGBTQ+ person. That’s just the facts.

So when a straight person makes a joke about gay people, they are helping to strengthen the structures that keep queer people as being perceived as lesser. But when it’s the other way around, that is queer people fighting back against those structures and saying no, you can’t put us down like that. It’s why slurs get reclaimed and gay people make jokes about themselves. It’s the community’s way of taking back the weapons that cis-straight people have used for most of history to tear us down, turning them back on those same cis-straight people and asking, “How does it feel?” More often than not, the answer is not good.

It’s the difference between punching up and punching down. Making fun of people that society has deemed lesser is kicking someone when they’re already down. When we make fun of ourselves, that’s just gallows humor, cause we’re the ones on the gallows. When you make fun of us, you’re just a part of the rabble gathered to see the hanging.


Youtube for my in person rants

Instagram for my amateur photography skills

The Grown Ups Are Gone So YEET Let’s Have Some Real Fun

This is not going to be your usual content, because I am not your usual blogger. I have blood relation to your usual blogger, but I am not she, because I am me. I am Kiki, her sister. You may remember me from such iconic posts as, “Are You There, God? It’s Me, A Bitch-Ass Dyke”. My sister is taking a short break from blogging to pursue other artistic endeavors, so here I am! (Here is relative.)

A little bit about me: I’m studying film in Chicago and I have a youtube channel (shameless plug here I’m called TheAudaciousApple check me out). My Greek is worse than my sister’s but my Chinese is better. I did horseback riding instead of swimming and eat garbage instead of avocado toast. (Except for that one time when my roommate made me some REALLY good avocado toast on ciabatta bread with a poached egg but that was ONE TIME and I IMMEDIATELY ate cold pizza and skittles to remind me who I truly am.) The point is, if you come here for my sister’s well-balanced life advice, you may want to look elsewhere for that over the next couple weeks, cause I ain’t got it.

You know what I do go? OPINIONS. SO. MANY. OPINIONS. Opinions on films (duh), on people, on politics, on the world, I mean, you name it, and I got an opinion on it. The sky? Could be bluer. Water? It doesn’t all taste the same and that’s just facts. Wasps? Far, far too scary by far. 0/10 do not recommend.

In my most recent term at school I found myself engaged in weekly verbal combat with a certain professor of mine. He’s the sort to yell his opinions as though they’re the gospel truth and call you a fascist if you disagree with him. Yes, seriously. Day One, he called me a fascist because I said that I like Marvel films and thought that they weren’t fascist propaganda, but more anti-fascist than he was giving them credit for. He’s very fond of that word, fascist. Interesting, considering that one of the key elements of fascism is stifling all opposing viewpoints, and that’s exactly what he does when he shuts down any measure of dissent in his classroom with a minimum ten minute tirade directed at the offending party. But no, Captain America is the real problem.

Listen bub, when I watch one of these 1960s Czech surrealist films that you assign us, I feel like I need to lay down for at least forty-five minutes. No, an hour. Maybe two. At least one and a half. And if that’s all anyone ever watched, all we’d do is stare at the ceiling and think about how messed up the world is. But watching a sexy sonuvabitch punch the literal personification of evil in the face? Now that shit makes me want to go do things with my life. Mainly it makes me want to do Chris Evans but that’s NOT THE POINT. The point is, if you took a step off from your soapbox about the American military industrial complex (which, honestly, I agree with him about, because yeah, it’s messed up the way the government fabricates and profits off of wars, but he’s such a condescending jerk about it that I don’t want to be associated with any of his views) then you would realize that the title “Infinity War” has nothing to do with the dubbing of the War on Terror as the “Forever War”. The name Thanos is derived from Thanatos, which means death. As they say beyond the Wall, “Death is the enemy. The first enemy, and the last. […] The enemy always wins, and we still need to fight him.”

So Infinity War isn’t so much promoting blind nationalism as it is pointing out the futility of battling with death when, no matter what, we all die. Unless, of course, Thanos has nothing to do with Thanatos, and is in fact referring to the best man and my parents’ wedding, in which case we have a whole new set of problems. Point is, dress it up in spectacle all you want, the Infinity War is a losing fight, and it always was. But my professor will never know this because he dismisses the mainstream out of hand. Moral? Give things a chance. Just because it’s popular doesn’t mean it’s stupid.

And all that is just a taste of the OPINIONS and THOUGHTS and FEELINGS that I have so get PUMPED because I have SO MANY MORE.IMG_20180703_125833.jpg

This is me looking much chiller than I have ever been in my entire life because film is inherently a lie and the sooner you learn that the sooner you can start interacting with films more critically. Also it’s a nice picture and I look tan which never happens because I’m pasty as hell 24/7.

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