A serial character

I would be fucking great serial character.

That thought crossed my mind when I was drying my hair with an air heater. Reading Madame Bovary.

My whole body was laying on the bed, my head right next to the heater, which was on the floor.

Oh, and the book on the floor in front of my face.

I’ve once read an essay in Polish Elle or other Glamour about why we like Bridget Jones more than Carrie Bradshaw. To me exact why we (women) feel much closer to the first one. Her imperfections.

“Always being a little bit fat” and trying to put one’s hair in order using household appliances.

Me being messed up when it comes to relationships (as every young women I suppose), trying to succeed in arts (writing, filmmaking, life modeling, whatever) in this amazing city.

Supporting characters: famous to be singer, as miserable in her love life as me, smoking too much weed and studying biochemistry. And a hot guy: talented photographer. Not only gay, but also taken one.

We running around broke, drinking too expensive for us wine, watching movies and eating pizza in halls bedroom.

Maybe I’m just desperate to see myself as something whose fate depends on a solid fundament: script. To believe that there’s a plan for a next season.