Oh, my beloved Crash, you poor and misunderstood creature, you sad slow blink of want, you twisted, corroded love story. How I adore you so.

How absurdly beautiful this movie is, all the squinting detachment and inability to climax, the frustrating machinations of lust, the clinical steeliness of boredom. I once wrote for the Cinematic Void zine that this was one of the most romantic movies of our time, because it offers us a chance to contemplate the most beautiful gift of all: flooring it. It was probably the most clever little thing I ever wrote in my life.

It is so special when you meet someone who understands that bottomless well you sometimes can’t help but draw from. When someone understands the eroticism of the bloody mouth, of the hands that grip the bruised thigh. Of how you can fill any void if you try hard enough, and no matter how weird and rusted it gets there can be someone, anyone, anywhere, who may understand you. When you find that person, you’ll do anything they want, and you’ll panic when they leave. It will almost kill you. Trust me. You don’t want to know.

When I think of Crash I think of the color blue, of oil black, of dented chrome. I think of the chasm between people who may love each other, the reflections of ourselves in another’s eyes, the gripping of a sheet as you fall fitfully to sleep. I think of how ever the dirtiest, ugliest things can be desirable. I think of how I regret the tattoos on my legs because I want more than anything to have etched there the deep bruises in the exact spots Catherine has after her backseat dalliance with Vaughn, and my GOD, how James lingers over them lovingly. This is one of the most erotic scenes I’ve ever encountered in my life.

Look, I’ve been open before about the font of desire I am burdened by, of the specific release I am always searching for. How I sometimes think I’ve found it. This movie was the first time I ever felt seen by something. This movie understands me, and I it, on a perverse, almost religious level. It’s a lot of things: an almost precognitive testament to how, as society, the more we advance the less we connect; a reminder to, as Pansy Division once said, Feel No Guilt in Your Desire; a suggestion that when you can’t find the piece that fits, well, maybe the next one will.

Please stop misquoting this movie; it is a travesty to me.

Not one Tubi. Sorry. Here’s a good essay I quite enjoyed, though.