61 Frames Per Second by John Constantine Today in Nerve's videogame blog: Street Fighter. The movie. A new one. With that chick from that Superman show. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about!
The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Mad Men's January Jones struts her stuff in Vanity Fair. Plus: Damages returns, the latest Gossip Girl guest star and Donna Martin capitulates.
Whatever I wanted to do at 20, I did it. Then I did it five more times. My diaries from that era are short on introspection but long on action. I had six lovers, an insane husband in another country and a death wish. I had no money, no home, no peace and no answers, and I was driven to find them — right now — in experience. I've always solved things with sex, and I had more to solve at 19 and 20. I didn't want to listen to anyone or read anything. I wanted to do it — everything. "I have no time for books anymore," I wrote in the heavy melodrama of twentydom, "I'm too vicious for that." I was not what you would call a kind soul, or a wise one. I was a slave to my whims, and I expected everyone else to be, too.
I wouldn't want to be friends now with the person I was then. I was too unpredictable and too disrespectful. Plus, violent things seemed to happen wherever I went. But Me-Then could be really funny, and I get a queasy enjoyment out of reading my misadventures; I figured you probably would too. So that's what we're going to do, in one diary entry each month.
