Not a pimp, so suicide is still an option

I just watched Southland Tales.

I have no idea what to type.

If you've seen the movie, you'll surely identify with me on this one.

As per my brain's typically simplistic style of coping with things I've just seen, I shall make the following analogy:

Watching Southland Tales is like standing at the end of a line of all the most attractive, desireable males in all of existence, and having the Roman goddess Venus walked dismissively past all of them, kiss you on the cheek, and then hit you in the nuts with a bowling ball.

This analogy works on 2 levels.

1. When you try to explain what happened to others, no one will believe you.
2. While you can no longer reproduce, there's no doubt you were kissed by a Goddess.

So you might ask, "Is the film good or bad?"

My answer: "I have no fucking clue."

I actually watched Southland Tales 5 days ago, and it's taking me this long to write a blog that can even make this much sense.

Here, one last way to describe it, perhaps more accurately: Southland Tales is a movie that abducts you from your home and returns you several days later with a nice manicure and a glass of the finest liqueur you've ever tasted, but no memory of what occurred and a suspiciously sore left ankle.