My life is pretty sweet. I woke up this morning at 9:30am, then went back to bed. I woke up an hour later, and lay there til I fell asleep again. At 12:30pm, I got up. After waking at 11:30 and lying in bed for an hour, trying to fuse my head into my pillow, I realized that my noon class was a no go, but that I should hurry for my 1pm class. 12:53 rolls around and I decide that today will spent indoors. I was already skipping my 4pm screening because it was Casablanca. I've already seen it many, many times and I didn't feel like letting some young "thing" ruin it for me by being cell(f)-centered.
I ended up spending my day drinking a few litres of chocolate milk and watching a guitar instruction video. I knew this was an old video as soon as I saw the guy's sweater (probably knitted by grandma). It turned from instructional to comedy after 18 minutes. He told me to play along with him, but I went to the bathroom to read the comics instead. While I would have avoided this note, it was during my excursion that I overheard, "Yeah, now that sounds good. You're making real progress."
From that point on, the guitar was in it's stand and I was watching the video with doe-like eyes waiting for another camp classic.
(Sidenote, according to a current infomercial at 2:26am, everyone that watches Seinfeld is depressed in some way because they advertised anti-depressants during the breaks.)
I took 2 more naps after the video after I tried to read some more of my current English text, The World We Want by Mark Kingwell. (Mark, by the way, will be at the Isabel Bader Theatre on Friday at 3pm to lecture.) I've been trying to read his book for the last 3 weeks and I just can't do it. 12 out of 15 attempts have rendered by unconscious. If I fall asleep two more times, this book is gonna pass me in KO's. Anyone who has talked to me in the last week has been treated to my regurgitated hatred of this book. I'm sure it's a good book. It is a national bestseller. I just find it so boring. It's 250 pages of pure political jargon. I've got "-isms" out the Wazoo. It seems like someone's taken all the words I hate and put them into paragraphs. Today, was the last stand, and this book will serve no further purpose to me, aside from replacing the sleeping pills that I cannot take.
With the addition of a webcam to the beast, I decided to use it for blog-like purposed. I've already used it to spy on the neighbourhood through the window, videotape me dancing in front of a mirror and photograph my butt, so I'm re-inventing.
Everyone (cough) seems to be talking about their toy collections (lame segway), so I thought that I would snap a few of my good buddy Michael. We've been threw some hard times together. There was the neighbour's phone call to the police after Michael's motion alarm went off during the middle of the day, my father freaking out the first time he heard Michael speak, and the whole -me not being able to sleep with him in the room for a month- thing. After I had my annual move shit around room cleaning, Michael moved a little closer to the head of the bed.
He used to be very, very far away, but now he has his own pedestal. Bex still doesn't like him, and frankly I love it! I absolutely adore the look on her frightened face, when the lights are out and I whisper, "That's weird. Michael's missing." Now all I need is a sweet Jason figure and I can film the Vs. movie that really should have happened. Besides Mikey's number 1 anyways. Jason's been killed and humiliated dozens of times. He picks on the wee ones, and uses an assortment of goodies to slice and dice (Machete and chainsaw are trademarks, but Jason's a spur of the moment kind of guy!). Freddy's a damn demon! How lazy do you have to be? You just let them fall asleep and come to you. He changes the rules of the dreamworld making continuous hallways and junkyards. If the kid gets a good shot, he shapeshifts into some cheap ass weapon. Michael on the other hand, is the true father of the slow-walk pursuit. When have you ever seen the man run? NEVER! Yet he's always on your ass with that damn kitchen knife. He's the only mortal out of the group, and has no problem with killing all age groups. There's no real gloating, no bizarre costume changes or annoying puns (though Fred does have some good ones).
All this talk, makes me want to call up Lauren and have Slashfest II: The Curse of The Next Chapter's Baby.
No comments:
Post a Comment