Alias is returning with a bang, folks: a 2-hour long show this Wednesday night at 8pm! My fellow agents and I will be accompanied by an Allegro's pizza as we crowd in the living room of 1803 HRE to reunite with Sydney & the APO gang. We're sure to squeal and shriek tons ("Ohhhhh Myyyyy GOOOOoossshh!"), and Angie's mouth will hang open, her eyes wide in disbelief. Ahh, I've missed Alias nights... My sister, lucky bitch, is going on the set to learn about television costume design on one of the last two shoots of the series. I'm not the kind of person that gets starstruck, but in the case of Alias.... let's just say I'm green with envy. Like, kelly green green.
Tonight when I got home from a night of pure gluttony (AKA Hoa's 22nd birthday celebration), I put on my mellow playlist on iTunes (who'm I kidding, all my playlists except one are mellow). The second song to come on was Natalie Merchant's My Skin, which plays in the background of the Alias episode in which Sloane tells his wife Emily that he's actually a terrorist rather than an upstanding member of the CIA as he poisons her. It's a sad, sad, sad sad song.
It's strange how powerful music can be: Jet's Cold Hard Bitch comes on the iPod, and suddenly my hips sway, my steps quicken, and I'm untouchable-- Sydney Bristow in black leather disguise, strutting down the streets of Paris oozing with the sexiness of confidence. Natalie Merchant's My Skin comes on, and something else happens. It reaches inside of me and gently prods the most tender thoughts I've pushed to a place beyond consciousness-- the sadness of impending farewells, the heartaches of loneliness, the regret of past mistakes, the fears of the future, the unknown-- so that I suddenly find myself catching tears I hadn't realized were coming.
I don't know how to put a conclusion on this, so I'm ending it here. G'night.
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