I realize that the blogging has been sporadic at best this semester (made painfully evident by the fact that when I look back at the "Previous Entries" thingy I can still select the first entry I made this year...), but in 11 days I'll be finished with the semester. And then it's all blogging, all the time. *does snoopy dances before Lupe stops her*
This close of my first semester of real college does lend itself rather well to major panic attack like symptoms that leave me curled up in the fetal position on the floor because OH MY GOD I ONLY HAVE SEVEN SEMESTERS LEFT WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITH MY LIFE I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT MEDIA STUDIES MEANS. DOES ANYBODY KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS???
*ahem*
Oh, and Little Miss NASCAR and I have realized that when we graduate, we'll have exactly the same degrees. We then realized that that was weird, and have decided that we seriously need to expand our social circles.
Only kidding.
Also, in 12 days I'll be able to sleep in. Which is completely unacceptable and I'm trying to forget about.
(This is not counting the two nights in Galena where Imladris and I are forced almost at gunpoint to share a glorified twin bed, which are always incredibly restful. *snorts*)
We've moved into the psychological disorders chapter in psychology. This, frankly, has proven to be a disappointment. Say whatever you want about me, but I admit that I love scandal. I was hoping for some weird fantasies, fetishes, or- dare I hope- even a little incest. Alas, that guy who wrote in to Dear Abby a couple years ago who was in love with his stepdaughter and liked looking her feet or something weird like that is nowhere to be found.Instead I got OCD, depression, and general anxiety disorders. If I'd wanted to deal with those I'd just have stayed home. (Ha! *ahem* Sorry.)
I'm thinking of writing a letter to the textbook editor. Clearly he dropped the ball on this one.
There's a sign up in the breakroom about how we (meaning the company I work for) have decided to carry O.J. almost-new book as a service to our customers, but we will not promote it or profit from it. And then someone scrawled "DON'T WORRY CANCELLED" in very relived big letters all over it. Hehe.I got a gift card at work for customer service. Obviously they don't read this blog. Heh.
Also, I'd like to openly threaten whoever decided that we should listen to Beethoven's ENTIRE Ninth Symphony at work on Saturday on repeat. And not just the pretty part that everybody knows, but the you-know-she's-gotta-be-huge-with-those-lungs screeching in German part that I fastforward through on my iPod. (That is if I could make myself take Awake off of rotation, which I can't yet. Shut up I'm normal.
I suppose it's better than when I had to listen to Evanesence's latest on loop for seven hours. I was ready to stick my hand in the pizza oven just because the sound of sizzling flesh would perhaps drown out Amy Lee's plaintative wailing about someone dying/leaving her/being drunk (Call Me When You're Sober? Oh Amy darling, have we fallen on hard times???).
Had major number of movie experiences this past couple of days, both at the theater and at home, and they cannot all simply pass into oblivion without mention.
First, new Bond. Oh. My. He's fantastic. So what if he has a daughter that's about five years younger than me and WHAT OH SHIT HE LIVED WITH THE WHORE FROM LOVE ACTUALLY!?!?!?!?!?! THE THE NECKLACE IS MINE BITCH ONE?!??!?!?!?!?!?! BITCH MUST DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11!!!!!
*stops breathing*
Actually, the previous rant is a perfect lead in to my next movie, which was the annual holiday viewing of Love Actually that Imladris and I conducted this weekend. However, we mostly just yelled random stuff at the screen and laughed about the Neesons getting all up in each other sagginess.
I love how Emma Thompson is all haggard suburban housewife who's stuck making a paper mache lobster head and shuttling the kids around to whatever little British brats do instead of soccer while her husband is cheating on her with Bond's little tart and then like an hour in the writers are like, oh, and she's the Prime Minister's sister. What?
What else? Oh, finally saw Stranger Than Fiction. It was good. Not as good as I thought it would be, and felt way longer than the 103 minutes it was, but still good.
And on Sunday night Disney Channel ran the next American Girl movie, Molly. I love Molly. She was my second doll, and she was always my special one because Colleen thought she was ugly with the glasses and didn't want her (Wow. Kids *can* be cruel.). Disney, however, decided to make her Dad Jewish and screwed up the ending that is my favorite part of the entire series and still makes me cry. Shut up. *sigh*
Mary and I have decided that Kirsten or Kit will be next, because they are the most likely to have doll friends that need to be pimped out by Mattel.
Don't really feel like linking today, but Kid Rock and Pamela Anderson broke up. Let's light a candle and pray, children.
And I'd just like to pose an open question, but it seems as though all I've seen recently are pictures of Britney Spears out partying with some random hot person, and I'm starting to wonder where the hell her newborn and 15-month-old are. As if they don't have enough problems already.
1 comment:
OK, first of all, it's no slumber part for ME either in that twin bed, becuse YOU'RE the territorial sleeper, lest we forget.
And Bond: zomg so haut. And his daughter is AT LEAST three years younger than me. That's a LOT of years. I mean, that's like a fifth of an Ancient Grecian's life expectancy.
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