I sat on the porch for a good half an hour not being able to move a finger tip, until it started to rain again. At the end of the second-to-last episode I was thinking "man... this show is Fucked -up." An endless series of ppl taking turns to have a fit, an emotional rampage, or a downright nervous breakdown. Why am I always drawn to a simply unlovable character like Nathaniel Fisher, or Dean Moriarty, who throws his life around like a fucking yo-yo, who drag innocent ppl into his emotional drama like they are just his playthings scattered around on the bedroom floor and waiting for him to pick up then drop off on a whim. But towards the end of day he has to scoop up his dignity from the floor afresh for yet another day's squander. More than 30 years I've been racking up all these dubious credentials,pretty sophistication and self-congratulatory innuendos, yet on a misty Friday afternoon I am sitting here unloved, fingertips frozen. "He loved you the best he can, but you needed more." Cliche like that made my heart skip. But in the end it's a show about necessary compromise, selective memories, and "move the fuck on". In the end when all is indeed lost, you have to be happy with the fact that you at least wiped the slate clean. Then on an idle Sunday afternoon somewhere down the road when there's nothing better to do, you'll pick up a few relatively happy memories and say, "ok, this is what we'll call it now." When Nate, or his ghost, gradually faded out from the side mirror of Clare's car I was fighting to hold back tears - why does everything have to be so fucking symbolic.yet on a misty Friday afternoon I am sitting here unloved, fingertips frozen. "He loved you the best he can, but you needed more." Cliche like that made my heart skip. But in the end it's a show about necessary compromise, selective memories, and "move the fuck on". In the end when all is indeed lost, you have to be happy with the fact that you at least wiped the slate clean. Then on an idle Sunday afternoon somewhere down the road when there's nothing better to do, you'll pick up a few relatively happy memories and say, "ok, this is what we'll call it now." When Nate, or his ghost, gradually faded out from the side mirror of Clare's car I was fighting to hold back tears - why does everything have to be so fucking symbolic.yet on a misty Friday afternoon I am sitting here unloved, fingertips frozen. "He loved you the best he can, but you needed more." Cliche like that made my heart skip. But in the end it's a show about necessary compromise, selective memories, and "move the fuck on". In the end when all is indeed lost, you have to be happy with the fact that you at least wiped the slate clean. Then on an idle Sunday afternoon somewhere down the road when there's nothing better to do, you'll pick up a few relatively happy memories and say, "ok, this is what we'll call it now." When Nate, or his ghost, gradually faded out from the side mirror of Clare's car I was fighting to hold back tears - why does everything have to be so fucking symbolic."He loved you the best he can, but you needed more." Cliche like that made my heart skip. But in the end it's a show about necessary compromise, selective memories, and "move the fuck on". In the end when all is indeed lost, you have to be happy with the fact that you at least wiped the slate clean. Then on an idle Sunday afternoon somewhere down the road when there's nothing better to do, you'll pick up a few relatively happy memories and say , "ok, this is what we'll call it now." When Nate, or his ghost, gradually faded out from the side mirror of Clare's car I was fighting to hold back tears - why does everything have to be so fucking symbolic."He loved you the best he can, but you needed more." Cliche like that made my heart skip. But in the end it's a show about necessary compromise, selective memories, and "move the fuck on". In the end when all is indeed lost, you have to be happy with the fact that you at least wiped the slate clean. Then on an idle Sunday afternoon somewhere down the road when there's nothing better to do, you'll pick up a few relatively happy memories and say , "ok, this is what we'll call it now." When Nate, or his ghost, gradually faded out from the side mirror of Clare's car I was fighting to hold back tears - why does everything have to be so fucking symbolic.sa show about necessary compromise, selective memories, and "move the fuck on". In the end when all is indeed lost, you have to be happy with the fact that you at least wiped the slate clean. Then on an idle Sunday afternoon somewhere down the road when there's nothing better to do, you'll pick up a few relatively happy memories and say, "ok, this is what we'll call it now." When Nate, or his ghost, gradually faded out from the side mirror of Clare's car I was fighting to hold back tears - why does everything have to be so fucking symbolic.sa show about necessary compromise, selective memories, and "move the fuck on". In the end when all is indeed lost, you have to be happy with the fact that you at least wiped the slate clean. Then on an idle Sunday afternoon somewhere down the road when there's nothing better to do, you'll pick up a few relatively happy memories and say, "ok, this is what we'll call it now." When Nate, or his ghost, gradually faded out from the side mirror of Clare's car I was fighting to hold back tears - why does everything have to be so fucking symbolic.ll pick up a few relatively happy memories and say, "ok, this is what we'll call it now." When Nate, or his ghost, gradually faded out from the side mirror of Clare's car I was fighting to hold back tears - why does everything have to be so fucking symbolic.ll pick up a few relatively happy memories and say, "ok, this is what we'll call it now." When Nate, or his ghost, gradually faded out from the side mirror of Clare's car I was fighting to hold back tears - why does everything have to be so fucking symbolic.
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Maybe I should really stop watching Six Feed Under in final time, it just messes with my mind, fucks me up, and twists me aroud like a worthless plaything. It's almost 1am, I'm sitting here with cigarette in one hand Jack Daniel in the other all messed up like a god damn cheap sentimental low-down. And I have to get up 7am tomorrow morning for the Legal Ethics exam. Some irony. Sometimes some random ppl see my writing and offer their sympathy for my "sadness". Robin Williams said to Matt Demon in Good Will Hunting, "Do you think I'd presume to know the first thing about your life just becasue I read fucking Oliver Twist?" I see myself as a relatively content person. Cause I don't really know what I want from life so I don't ask for anything. Yet I don't know why I am always so hopelessly drawn to morbid shit like this. But then again, You can only see the light mostly clearly when you are immersed in darkness and sheer silence, when it flashes across in those split seconds.
Some of the quotes from Episode 6:
Nathaniel (Father): "Now I'm like a fucking prophet. That's one of the perks of being dead, you finally know what happens after you die. And you know the meaning of life."
Nathan(Son): "that seems fairly useless."
Nathaniel: "Yeah I know, life is wasted on the living."
Mr. Jones: "That's my wife in the box. 56 years I've been sleeping in the same bed . 56 years listen to her talk about the same shit, day in... day out."
Nathan: "It's late now maybe I should drive you home."
Mr. Jones: "Shut the fuck up boy let the old man talk ."
Nathan: "Ok."
Mr. Jones: "She ah... once chased me cross the front yard with a steak knife try to cut my ass. We spent close to a year apart. That time like a hole in me now."
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