On every street in every city, there's a nobody who dreams of being a somebody.

Are you talkin to me?

Taxi Driver

You talking to me
While indulging in some idle New Year stocktaking, I found myself wallowing that my brain/soul/mouth/butt/life was some sort of exploding lake. Miraculously, I turned on the TV to catch up on Taxi Driver, that I'd recorded the previous day's night.

Jesus Christ, what a fucked up, scary-ass weirdo. The unheard cry for help; the unsettling attention to detail; the quick-draw practice; the unsolicited hatred then blame for cute political canvasser chick after he took her to a porno flick on their first date; the calculation; the foiled plot of presidential murder; the somewhat appealing, yet creepy saviour complex for young hooker; cheese on a pie??; the inevitable bloodbath fall in to murdering someone for something; eventual bad hair.

Realising that society has not yet whittled me into Frankenstein, I felt better.

Photos by mirovich, zerberus & eskimoblood.