Gunshot glitter.

My roommate and I are essentially 40-year-old women stuck in the bodies of 20-something girls, discussing epic romances, dysfunctional families, neuroses, mothers and bodily functions. We spend our weekends drinking vodka watching sci-fi television and chick flicks from the 80's, eating enough food for four people at dingy Indian restaurants, savouring masala tea, laughing loud enough to disturb other diners and pedestrians, trying to link up histories and love affairs and departures with dates. We say 'thank you' way too many times and smoke way too many cigarettes.

I went to the museum today, it was lovely. There is one room designed like a greenhouse, high glass ceilings. The room is full of fake birds and dismembered mannequin bodies with giant birds heads stiched on where the human heads should be, with shards of mirror spraying outwards, out of necks and branches. There are stuffed animals and their bodies are penetrated by mirror shards that shoot out like light. There is a little room, big enough for two people, made of broken glass, and it is hard to tell what bodies are part of the installation and which are experiencing it. You catch glimpses of body parts in mirrors, severed legs, fragmented faces, arms touching, women murmuring, 'give me my space.' Children screaming and laughing and chasing each other and their parents scolding, quietly. Some places are sacred.

The installation felt very amateur. I became nostalgic. It was similar to something I would have done back when I was still doing installations. I really liked broken glass. I glued it to anything, I painted over and around it, I used glass in photography series', I planted it, I threw a huge mirror on the ground, wearing goggles, and planted the shards in a mannequin's head, I desecrated shitty sculpture, mutant heads and women's bodies, with glass and porcelain cups. I didn't do well with sculpture. One day I threw a paintbrush at a boy and the paint splattered all over the wall behind him. He had fast reflexes. Soon after he fucked me from behind with my face pressed against that wall, my mouth open, I could almost taste the wet mark, oil paint thick like semen.

I want to project porn videos on two giant walls, 6 giant floor-to-ceiling screens, and play sad music, like the Microphones, or Deaf Center, or Olafur Arnalds. Girls being tag-teamed to 'Headless Horsemen." Gay threesome to "the Dead Flag Blues." Context is everything. I love you, is that okay?