But now, obvious attempts at tear-jerking illicit either laughter or plain disgust at the clumsy work of the author. Artistic tragedy, on the other hand, makes me feel really good.

I don't think this is normal. My aesthetic sense is literally a SENSE now, I think; I often get sick to the stomach reading something inartistic. It has progressed beyond detachment and desensitization to ULTRA-sensitivity, to the point where I can penetrate the surface events to the shape of the art and react to THAT instead. It's annoying.



WAX EYES. TRAINWRECK. TAKEOVER.