Wow, apparently I've been spelling "jewelry" wrong for 20 years. To a person with my sensibilities, that's shocking and frightening.
It's lucky I can still spell "chrysanthemum," "Czechoslovakia," and "business," otherwise I would really be screwed.
I wonder who invented cheese. It's such a flexible food, and it makes everything good. Except, maybe, chocolate. Cheese and chocolate are not friends.
I have had a headache for 3 days. I want to crawl into my bed and stay there. But this will destroy my forward momentum, and as I may have mentioned, that is all that is keeping me going. (Other than the misguided dream that someday, someone will leave me comments. Internet, I am looking at you. I know people read this website, because any time I mention anything to anyone I know, they immediately say, "Yeah, I know. I read it on your website." Step up to the plate!) So, instead of crawling into my bed (so welcoming, sun-dappled-- hey! I think that was a haiku!), I will plummet forward into the universe, like a meteor. A slow-moving, sluggish meteor that doesn't accomplish very much, but doesn't give up.
Could this be the central idea of a children's book: Sandra, the Sluggish but Stubborn Meteor?
I can't help thinking that huge parts of this season of Buffy haven't made a hell of a lot of sense, and the recappers at television without pity share my pain. Why are the characters behaving so erratically? Why are the writers completely ignoring consistency between episodes? Why is Buffy suddenly a big bitch?
These are the times that try men's souls.
I'm designing my own spin-off of the show featuring Principal Wood, Giles, Andrew, and Spike. Dawn can be on it too as long as she keeps her mouth shut. Everyone else-- whimpering Willow, fat Xander, bitchy Buffy, annoying Kennedy, those stupid Junior Slayers, and all those left-over Lord of the Rings extras dressed as Tarak-Han included-- can fade into re-run oblivion.
I have nothing to say about anything else, but don't adjust your set. Later on I may have more thoughts, thoughts about the real world, and I may share them with you.
But for now I am living in TV-land, because everything makes sense here. Except Ashanti as Xander's love interest. THAT would be asking too much.
hey, I'm a cow, i'm curious
hey, watch me now, i'm furious
Sometimes the world seems like such an exhausting place, and I think it's only habit that keeps us moving, at all. The opposite of inertia: momentum. At the moment I am moving only on my own forward momentum, and I'm believing on momentum too, if that's even possible.
I have begun searching for a real job. I think I'm going to plunge into the world of "employment by the municipal government." I only hope it's as inefficient and well-paid as it's rumoured to be. I feel it would be a distinct advantage at this moment to be part of a visible ethnic minority. If I just insisted that I'm Latina, or Japanese-Canadian, or something, do you think anyone would dare to argue with me?
I only use my politically correct powers for good.
And the MP3 of the day is Johnny Cash's cover of Nine Inch Backwards-N-Nails' Hurt. You haven't heard pain until you have heard this song.
And the Edmonton-Arts-Event of the weekend is the Kurosawa festival at the Metro. I've only seen one of his movies (Rashomon), but I've been meaning to see The Seven Samurai forever, and I would go if only I didn't have to help people move at all hours of the morning. And watch Buffy reruns. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.
You may be familiar with the name Kurosawa from that Barenaked ladies song: 'k, I don't make films,/but if I did they'd have a samurai
The episode of JUST SHOOT ME that was on this afternoon was the one where David Spade gets a moronic Canadian au pair. I hope someday, in a more enlightened future, making fun of Canadians on American TV will stop being funny. But honestly, I can't really foresee that happening. I have bestowed a new nickname on George Bush: "HD," for "Head Dumbass," although I'm sure you can think of a million other possibilities for its meaning. Drop me a comment!
I've just finished Luis Sepulveda's The Old Man Who Read Love Stories, and it's wonderful.
As a child he'd seen snow, like sheepskin set out to dry, on the ridges of the Imbabura volcano, and sometimes he felt it an unforgivable extravagance that the characters in his novels should tread on snow without worrying about making it dirty.
The nice man at the shoe repair in West Ed. is fixing my favourite boots for me. When did we start replacing things instead of getting them fixed? It occurred to me that shoes are one of the last things we even bother to repair.
^ My response to Caleb's (this 4-year-old I babysit for) question "WHO'S THAT GUY?" whenever we watch the atrocious Disney film THE ROAD TO EL DORADO. Caleb is frightened of Cortez, as am I, because he is a scary mofo.
And this makes me think of Xander: "I'm a conquistador. I'm a comfortador also." That's what I need, a conquistador and a comfortador also. That's why I can't really be in love with cowboys.
On the fray: Ben Brown's love will tear us apart. "'Oh,' says the real me. 'You don't want to go to the grocery store with me? THIS ISN'T LOVE! THIS IS A SHAM!'"
My brain does this. My brain tells me things like this, and I say to my brain, "shut up! Reading week told me I don't have to listen to you!"
Wow, you internet people are getting lots of updates today. That's because my new comments boxes turn me on. Are you even real, internet people? Well then, post me some fucking comments, internet people! IF THAT IS IN FACT YOUR REAL NAME!
James and I went to see the movie Talk to Her last week. It strikes me as I think about it more that in this life, try as we might, we don't get to choose who is going to love us. In fact, maybe we're lucky if anyone loves us at all.
Haha. No, seriously, ha. ha. [from defective yeti] I know Courtney will think this is funny, even if no one else does.
I've added a comments feature which will appear below every post. At the moment all these links will only launch one commetns box, because pitas does not generate automatic IDs for each entry, which makes it difficult to make a new comments box for every post. I'll see if I can fix that later, when I'm feeling more web-savvy. Anyway, feel free to post things to it, because it will make me happy.
Anyway, this feature will replace the guestbook, which was broken anyway, and anyone is welcome to post; you don't have to be part of my inner-web-circle, or anything.
Update [15 minutes or so later]: Wow, I fixed it! I'm a genius! See, I never use the "url" id that pitas assigns to each entry, so I just... oh, wait. You don't care. Sorry. Anyway, each entry has its own comments box now, and Chris, I'm sorry, but your comment is now buried at the bottom.
At night, I take my dog for these long, cold walks through residential neighbourhoods. There are mountains of snow between the sidewalks and the streets, in which (I imagine) tiny snow-people could build underground colonies. So many of the living rooms in the houses we pass are lit by the eerie, blue light of TV. I'm horrified by the idea that I may become one of those evening TV people-- dinner, TV, bed, work-- that I am bound to the future, or that I'm there already and I don't know. Because, let's face it, I'm already bored, and my life isn't even boring. How can I avoid a future in which I am so tired I don't care? For that matter, how can I be sure their lives are so different from mine?
Other people must feel like this.
I hate February. I really, really hate it, and we're breaking up. Nothing meaningful or fun happens in this stupid month, only reality TV finals.
Boy, I'm whiny tonight, aren't I? Doesn't it make you wish you were my boyfriend?
It's feeling very February-y around here. I'm not sure I like it. Boring things keep happening.
Another nervousness user cancelled an exchange with me and reprimanded me for using the term "nouveau white trash" in an item description. I felt vaguely guilty until I remembered I didn't care too much.
I registered for Spring and Summer session classes at the university. I'm taking two more lit classes in an attempt not to commit GPA-related suicide in my fourth year.
In High Noon, I cheered when Gary Cooper's Quaker wife (Grace Kelly!) picked up a gun and shot one of his enemies. And then I felt like I had betrayed her. I'm almost always on the side of the women who want to "stop the killing," or have "no more guns in the valley," or whatever. But not this time. Poor Gary Cooper.
I know I haven't really been updating much lately, but I talked to Reading Week about it, and reading week said it's OK. "Jocelyn," my friend reading week said, "You can do whatever the hell you want for the next 8 days. Aren't you glad we're friends?"
Duct tape? Rolls of plastic? What? [mimicking Milhouse when he loses his glasses] "What's going on? Who's talking?"
"He, like Bush, sought to spread calm at the end of a week in which many people stocked up on food, water, duct tape and anti-aircraft missile launchers... " OK, so maybe I read that wrong. The thing is, I have trouble believing that the U.S. is in as much danger of a terrorist attack as the current government would have people believe. It's like, "Now don't get hysterical, but you're in great, great danger and you need to buy lots of supplies and not leave your house... and not question my authority. Under any circumstances. Even though I wasn't really elected democratically. One of the things you shouldn't ask me about is why we're going to war with Iraq when they haven't done anything to us. Remember how terrorists are our enemy? Well, terrorists come from the same part of the world as Iraqis, the part over there, east of us! Can't you people see?"
"Because I'm evil now... and I want to do my best... at that." -Andrew
I watch Westerns every day now. I watched The Bend of the River on Thursday, and The Gunfighter yesterday, and today I'm watching High Noon. Do you know why? Because there is a sense of doom, and no formation of the heterosexual couple, and cute men like Gregory Peck and Rock Hudson are in them. [In Bend of the River, the bad guy SHOT Rock Hudson. Fortunately, he didn't kill him, but I was still pretty angry at him. No one shoots Rock Hudson and stays in my good graces.]
Happy Valentines Day, internet! I want all of you to be my valentines today. Yes, even you, fat man looking for porn. I'm feeling generous.
So, I'm all finished midterms, and it's reading week for me now, and I want to make love to reading week. In many ways I am like Roberto Benigni, only, like, the Roberto Beningi of the Internet. An internet foreign film star, that is what I am.
In the past two weeks I have accomplished the following things:
Sniffled my way through an 80-minute Shakespeare class, toting a giant box of Kleenex with me everywhere. When the prof called on me to answer a question I replied, and this is an exact quote, "I don't know. I'm too sick to think about this right now."
Got a nosebleed in the middle of a lecture in my children's lit class. I ran out of the room to the bathroom, and I left (for real) a trail of little blood droplets on the floor of the bathroom. And I got blood on my shirt, which I then had to wash off. In the bathroom. I had a clever line ready if anyone should ask me about the nosebleed, but no one did: "I know, I know. I should lay off the crack."
Became violently ill halfway through my Spanish Lit midterm (today!), finished writing my essay in about 4 minutes, and ran out of the room. I phoned my mom with this familiar line: "Mommy, are you working? Can you come get me? I'm sick."
Like I said, I'm a rock star.
You're already way too drunk and sad...
Nothing says "Valentines Day" like weird Radiohead demos. And that's the truth, yo.
Oh yeah: sometimes the imood indicator amuses me. Today, for example, the internet is feeling "loved." I would assume that is because I asked it to be my valentine.
the internet is
i am always
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