Italy was fucking amazing.
I want to cry; I miss it so much.
I miss C.
The one night we got to room together by ourselves was both of our favorite nights.
BLAH.
Babysitting right now- more later.
16 June 2008
03 June 2008
Vacation, All I Ever Wanted
That song reminds me of the fucking Rugrats episode where they took the babies to Las Vegas. Seriously? Why would you take toddlers to Las Vegas, regardless of their history of getting into escapades? Although, I did really, really want that double-decker RV.
Anyway, I'm going to Italy with a school group tomorrow. I'm so fucking excited.
Got to go- I'm watching an old Golden Girls episode featuring George Clooney as a junior detective.
Anyway, I'm going to Italy with a school group tomorrow. I'm so fucking excited.
Got to go- I'm watching an old Golden Girls episode featuring George Clooney as a junior detective.
01 June 2008
Sex and the Overblown City
I promised myself I would not go see the Sex and the City movie. Somehow, I got roped into what I assumed would be a breezy ninety-minute excursion into the fabulous lives of the Manhattan elite. I couldn't have been more wrong.
The worst things:
1. Jennifer Hudson. OH MY GOD. Who in god's name casted her? I saw the movie three days ago, and I still can't get over how terrible of an actress she is.
2. The Plot. Is this the best story they came up with in four years? Seriously? Every. Single. Thing. was completely predictable. I know that SATC is not a murder mystery or anything, but have some fucking decent ideas before you make a movie, okay?
3. The lack of Charlotte, Miranda, Samantha, and basically everyone else besides Carrie. I just don't like Carrie.
4. THE TIME. TWO-AND-A-HALF MOTHER FUCKING HOURS. I swear, by the end of it, my testicles had ascended and I had my first period.
5. The Fergie theme song. It is quite possibly the worst song ever recorded.
6. The boom mics. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I know that usually boom mic appearances are due to a negligent projectionist, but there were way too many sightings all across the country.
The best things:
1. Samantha. She gave me the only belly laughs I had in the entire movie. Plus, she had a remotely believable plotline and a really, really hot boyfriend (even though I had a hard time not imaging him making out with Kevin on Brothers & Sisters).
2. The peen.
The worst things:
1. Jennifer Hudson. OH MY GOD. Who in god's name casted her? I saw the movie three days ago, and I still can't get over how terrible of an actress she is.
2. The Plot. Is this the best story they came up with in four years? Seriously? Every. Single. Thing. was completely predictable. I know that SATC is not a murder mystery or anything, but have some fucking decent ideas before you make a movie, okay?
3. The lack of Charlotte, Miranda, Samantha, and basically everyone else besides Carrie. I just don't like Carrie.
4. THE TIME. TWO-AND-A-HALF MOTHER FUCKING HOURS. I swear, by the end of it, my testicles had ascended and I had my first period.
5. The Fergie theme song. It is quite possibly the worst song ever recorded.
6. The boom mics. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I know that usually boom mic appearances are due to a negligent projectionist, but there were way too many sightings all across the country.
The best things:
1. Samantha. She gave me the only belly laughs I had in the entire movie. Plus, she had a remotely believable plotline and a really, really hot boyfriend (even though I had a hard time not imaging him making out with Kevin on Brothers & Sisters).
2. The peen.
28 May 2008
Mundane Text Messages pt 1
I had my English and Religion exams. Fuck that shit, motha fuckas!
I sat at home and watched Top Chef afterwards. Everything Bravo does fascinates me, save for Top Chef. I love the show, but I've NEVER gone out of my way to watch it. Anyway, C and I had the following text message correspondence:
AT: You should eat lunch with me. (I've learned to "suggest" things. It makes me seem less forceful, and thus less creepy.)
C: Ya okay fine sounds good sure
C: Sweet. So shall i pick you up (I cut out a couple of meaningless texts)
AT: If you believe it is your duty. If you want to, that is. I don't want to force you into anything.:) I'm watching top chef and it is wonderful (I pride myself on being able to switch between good text-grammar and awesome text-grammar.)
C: Well then quit bein lazy and get your ass in my car. In a few minutes.
AT: Yes sir.
SWOON!
We ate at our favorite pizza place. I made him laugh-cry. I love making people laugh-cry.
Especially people I love.
I sat at home and watched Top Chef afterwards. Everything Bravo does fascinates me, save for Top Chef. I love the show, but I've NEVER gone out of my way to watch it. Anyway, C and I had the following text message correspondence:
AT: You should eat lunch with me. (I've learned to "suggest" things. It makes me seem less forceful, and thus less creepy.)
C: Ya okay fine sounds good sure
C: Sweet. So shall i pick you up (I cut out a couple of meaningless texts)
AT: If you believe it is your duty. If you want to, that is. I don't want to force you into anything.:) I'm watching top chef and it is wonderful (I pride myself on being able to switch between good text-grammar and awesome text-grammar.)
C: Well then quit bein lazy and get your ass in my car. In a few minutes.
AT: Yes sir.
SWOON!
We ate at our favorite pizza place. I made him laugh-cry. I love making people laugh-cry.
Especially people I love.
27 May 2008
Odi et Amo
I hate and I love.
I'm a fucking teenager. I shouldn't even consider "loving" anyone. I have school and obligations and parents to deal with. And, if you believe popular wisdom, teenagers just don't understand this "love" thing.
But I do love. And I do hate myself for loving. C is perfect. We're best friends. He likes Coldplay. I hate Coldplay, or at least I've pretended to for over a year. I'm too indie to like Coldplay, don't you know? Between you and me, "Violet Hill" and "Viva la Vida" are fucking awesome. Only Brian Eno is capable of turning the band I often compare to air conditioning into something more than just pleasant. I digress. C and I can talk for hours on end about practically nothing. One time we sat at "our spot" next to the River and made up stories about the white birds (geese? cranes?) who sat in the currents created by the giant turbines in the dam.
"Look at Brian over there," he says.
"I think he's enjoying those 'waves,'" I say.
"I think he's sexually enjoying those 'waves.'"
According to Facebook, he likes soccer, laughing until he cries, fire, the smell just before it rains, random acts of kindness, singing, temporal paradoxes, math, etc.
According to Facebook, I like everything he likes.
C is a man of few words. I speak too much. Though his neglect to return my texts and calls sometimes leads me to feel inadequate, I think this is a good thing. He balances me.
C is fucking gorgeous, too. Part white, part American Indian (is that what we're calling it these days?), and half Puerto Rican. His cheeks are perfectly sunken in, but not in an emaciated Ethiopian child sort of way.
The only problem? I'm gay, and I don't think he is.
As much as I hate doing Latin classwork, I cannot express how I feel when I'm around him better than Catullus does:
My tongue grows numb, a thin flame
seeps beneath my limbs, my ears ring
with their own sound, my eyes
are shrouded in double night.
I think I'm going to be using the "C" tag often.
I'm a fucking teenager. I shouldn't even consider "loving" anyone. I have school and obligations and parents to deal with. And, if you believe popular wisdom, teenagers just don't understand this "love" thing.
But I do love. And I do hate myself for loving. C is perfect. We're best friends. He likes Coldplay. I hate Coldplay, or at least I've pretended to for over a year. I'm too indie to like Coldplay, don't you know? Between you and me, "Violet Hill" and "Viva la Vida" are fucking awesome. Only Brian Eno is capable of turning the band I often compare to air conditioning into something more than just pleasant. I digress. C and I can talk for hours on end about practically nothing. One time we sat at "our spot" next to the River and made up stories about the white birds (geese? cranes?) who sat in the currents created by the giant turbines in the dam.
"Look at Brian over there," he says.
"I think he's enjoying those 'waves,'" I say.
"I think he's sexually enjoying those 'waves.'"
According to Facebook, he likes soccer, laughing until he cries, fire, the smell just before it rains, random acts of kindness, singing, temporal paradoxes, math, etc.
According to Facebook, I like everything he likes.
C is a man of few words. I speak too much. Though his neglect to return my texts and calls sometimes leads me to feel inadequate, I think this is a good thing. He balances me.
C is fucking gorgeous, too. Part white, part American Indian (is that what we're calling it these days?), and half Puerto Rican. His cheeks are perfectly sunken in, but not in an emaciated Ethiopian child sort of way.
The only problem? I'm gay, and I don't think he is.
As much as I hate doing Latin classwork, I cannot express how I feel when I'm around him better than Catullus does:
My tongue grows numb, a thin flame
seeps beneath my limbs, my ears ring
with their own sound, my eyes
are shrouded in double night.
I think I'm going to be using the "C" tag often.
You are Beautiful, AT.
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