the pomegranate tiger

Linda: Why don't you just get rid of it. Jack: What? Linda: That (pointing at his old rugby sweater). You said you'd get rid of it. You were going to take it to the thrift shop. Jack: I'm thinking about it. Linda: What do you mean 'thinking about it'? Either you are or you aren't. Jack: I like it. It's not like I wear it when we go out or anything. What's the big deal? Linda: No big deal. It just bugs me when you say you're going to do something and then don't. Jack: It's comfortable. It's good to have something around that's comfortable. Linda: And what about the new one I bought for you? Jack: That's different. Linda: What's different about it? Jack: It's not as comfortable. Linda: What do you mean not comfortable? Jack: I said "not as" comfortable. It's broken in – comfortable – I can relax in it. It's good for lounging around – when I can't find somethi...

Debra liked the demented, the dark and the surreal. It reflected her personality. From a young age, she’d realized there was no such thing as happy endings. The pursuit of happiness was for the delusional. To the world, she presented a hard, been knocked around, can take care of myself, so don’t fuck with me veneer. She didn’t believe in fairy tales -- unless they were told by Tim Burton. Yet, in the back of her mind, she harboured the faint hope that there might be a happy ever after for her. Of course, she never allowed anyone to see this hopefulness. So, now, here she was lying on a white sand beach. She couldn’t remember how she got there. She looked down at herself. She was dressed all in white; white slacks, white blouse, white pumps. She strained to remember something – anything. It was surreal; a scene from the Twilight Zone. Wasn’t there a scene like this in Contact where Jodie Foster’s character meets her dead father on a beach? Maybe she was dead. Maybe she wa...