Giancarlo's woman--an analysis:

Devious doors open and shut during a five hour date; she taps at the cracks in the glass and considers the fastest way to get inside. Into the heart, through the stomach, by way of the crotch, perhaps through the pocketbook. Or maybe I just want a trophy to show off to the ginos on Weston Rd. Every time we’re together there’s this untouchable tension, hidden by mutual consent beneath the surface. She writes volumes of her insides on a sheet of paper, but in person there is a greyness about her. A matter of time before she cracks from the frustration. Ok maybe I think too highly of myself; maybe it’s not me who’s her problem—it’s she who colours the issue. She wants someone to worship, I can see it. She’s got this unconditional look about her that is completely blind to offence; she utterly lacks an ego, which makes her kind of attractive.

Man I'm such a hypocrite.

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