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I’m 32 years old and I feel better than I’ve ever felt. It’s mostly a degree of comparisons. I felt incredibly shitty at 13, and I’ve been marking points on the graph upward ever since. But, I still have bad days and probably will until I die. Sometimes there seem to be reasons for these feelings, these bad days, sometimes there aren’t reasons. There are always reasons to feel bad, actually, but we often grab them randomly out of our bag of miseries to explain a shitty mood. When we try to get to the bottom of it, there isn’t a bottom of it.

Comedy usually makes me feel better because it meets me in those pits of myself that drop off. Comedy turns that sinking feeling into levitation. That’s it’s magic.

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I used to think I had friends, but I’m beginning to wonder what that means. I think maybe my heart is broken. It’s a pressure, a strange pulling. My body seems separate from “me,” somehow, like a costume. In the middle of a conversation, I sometimes wonder who the other person is talking to.

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It’s an insanely hard matter to exist. First, of course, we have to make sure our basic needs are met, which is a chore in itself. The problem with having them met is that it is only briefly satisfying for us. The hunger that’s hard to feed and the rumbling that seems impossible to quiet is the pull of the dread of death and a swallowing ache of loneliness.

This disorienting pain is where Don Hertzfeldt’s films live.

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Ken Cosgrove has in his reach the perfect setup for an aspiring author: thanks to his marriage situation, he could take of advantage of all the money and time needed to hammer out his first novel. He only toys with this dream briefly, though, this glimmering life not lived, before going back to tracing the same old circles with his hours, this time fueled by revenge. Is that all there is?

itfollows

It’s intentionally difficult to gauge when It Follows is supposed to be set. Everything has a vintagy feel. The old televisions, cars, and black-and-white movies make it seem like a hipster’s dream. A driving 80’s horror-synth soundtrack (by Rich Vreeland of Disasterpeace) follows the characters as they live a sleepy life in an run-down suburb of the further disintegrating Detroit, and their lives are accented by stylistic beauty of a curated mix of relics from different decades. The only nod to the “present” exists both in the future and the past: a pink kindle-iphone type device that looks like a 1960s pink clamshell compact. It’s a brilliant touch that had me craving it immediately and hating that it didn’t actually exist.

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I get a lot of great, stimulating questions and observations on my Ask.fm. I often quickly reply, sometimes typing out long responses on my phone. It’s great, but I’ve decided to try fleshing out my answers a little more into an advice column of sorts. If you want to see your question here, just send it to ask.fm/lynncinnamon. QUESTION: Lately, i have developed a kind of a destructive obsession with being utterly objective. I change my mind a lot i… Read more »