Well, I had a decently productive morning. Got my letter of intent re-written and sent to my dad for his input, got emails sent to my profs to ask them for letters (getting kinda rejected on that front, but we’ll see what happens), and I feel decent about it.
Crap, I gotta get to the bank for real. And make sure I lock up Thena tomorrow morning — I have been informed that they are showing the building. *sigh* Maybe I should just see if I can channel Thena’s evil aggressiveness into attacking people who show my apartment.
I saw Troy last night with a group of friends. I have to say, the ninjas were the best part, and there was this sneaky part with a wooden horse… but I’m saying too much. 😉
Anyhow, general consensus was that it was kinda too long, and you’d think Brad Pitt couldn’t act based on the dialogue they gave him, and I was disappointed with the nudity in it. Not that I actually care about seeing Brad Pitt named, but if you’re going to advertise nudity, then I want to see it! I want my nudity!
Okay, I’m done. In a moment of brilliance, moments before going into the theatre, I managed to knock a large pop onto (boy) N’s pants, and so I felt guilty and he felt sticky. Sadness abound. Abounded. Hrm.
I also decided that when I become a middle-aged woman, I will no longer permit myself to go to movie theatres. It seems that most often when I’m being disturbed in some manner or another in a movie theatre, at least for extended periods of time, it’s by a middle-aged woman: the loud laughing woman at American Wedding (although that was more disturbing to Gord than myself); the “I get the plot points two minutes later and announce them to the world at large” woman in SWAT; the lady with the screaming baby who controlled her in Scooby Doo 2; the pairs of middle-aged ladies that always jabber together in half the movies I see… admittedly, these are bad movies, so I don’t muchly care, and N and I were certainly cracking jokes to one another as well, but we were doing our best to avoid disturbing others, and I think we mostly succeeded. Also, we should shoot all the jabbery teenagers and not allow them to attend movies, either. Especially when they’re dressed as if they’re about to go whoring downtown after the movie lets out.
Man, being cranky at people is fun. In my defense, I was equally cranky at teenagers when I was a teenager. Maybe it’s because I never had the body to wear the latest in skankwear. I still don’t, but I think I’ve lost a bit around my middle, ’cause I’m comfortably wearing my belt on its smallest setting, and I don’t think I could’ve done that earlier.
Dammit, Launchcast is finally getting on the ball with the good music, and I have to go soon. Argh.
Anyhow, tonight’s plan involves the gym, then vegging out on the couch for the final episode of Angel and hopefully figuring out how to badger my television into letting me tape a different channel from the one I’m watching, thereby allowing me to watch Gilmore Girls afterwards. This revolutionary technology, man, I just don’t know what to do with it! I could have company for this great event, but I’m just not sure… typically after the gym I come home, lounge about and eat, shower and then lounge about some more, this time in pyjama-type wear without underwear. This is not typically good dressing habits for company, particuarly company that has not seen you sans underwear. Urgh, just don’t know what to do about little Spot (inside joke, one I’ll likely forget in a few minutes, don’t mind me).
I’ve taken to giving nicknames to the boys in my life, I think. Some of my friends like to think that this is derogatory, but it’s not! I dated one guy that I called The Frog, and it’s not ’cause he was French, it’s just ’cause of the way my brain works — in twisty ways that amuse the crap out of me. Since Spot shares a name with another good friend of mine, one I mention much more often, there had to be some way to distinguish between them, and calling them “New” and “Old” was semi-confusing… since the new one is actually older than the old one. Finally, as the original one didn’t really want to be renamed, and I didn’t so much want to rename him, we went from Sparky to Spot — ’cause he’s like a little puppy that always wants to be around me, and Sparky is a horrid name for a dog. I babysat for a family that had a poorly-trained dog named Sparky who smelled. I hated the name before that, and that experience just reinforced it all for me.
Anyhow, when original friend protested being permanently renamed to Ezekiel, he suggested we call (now-)Spot by the Frog’s real name, saying, when I protested, that if he had to give up his name, then so did the Frog, but we solved all the naming problems with Spot.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this kind of dilemma can in fact occupy large portions of my evening, and as a topic of conversation, I’d say it certainly had the one on tapeworms beat. Just to make you all think differently of Ben, his suggestion was to tie one end of the tapeworm around a doorknob and start running.
I leave you with that mental image. I’m *ever* so glad it’s come back to haunt me, too.