Your Day Breaks, Your Mind Aches

I think I am going to spend tomorrow reading. All day. It's going to be nice, I imagine. Haven't had chance to do that for ages.

And I think I might do some of this at Coffee Matters. Because I want one of those Aztec Hot chocolates. Mmhmm.

Ps The Tom Petty show? No words.

well, a few, but I'm too lazy to form them into a good, strong sentence.

Even to lazy to capitalize that 'w'.

I was informed today that people from 'around the bay'-something that I still don't really know what means but don't want to ask and have people make fun-are shorter than most? I was speaking of my experience in the mall yesterday, midnight madness (which was insane, by the by), and how I was walking through a group of people that I towered over. My room mate replied they must have been from around the bay. And I...nodded and said 'okay' because what does one say to that?

My Sister Got Lucky, Married A Yuppie

Tom Petty tribute show at the Rock House tonight(Friday).

Oh my gosh. I'm so there.

With my old roomate, even. Yeah.

Do Your Dance, Quick Mama

I wish to see American Gangster or We Own the Night. I'm obviously in the mood for a gangster film. Maybe this weekend. Saturday...ish?

After seeing Eastern Promises, I suppose, I went on a kick. Though, Young Guns I and II don't count in that genre, they were still actionesque flicks. I've done 3,000 words for Nano since yesterday and I'm feeling productive. Still behind, but hey, I'm trying.

Tomorrow is my nerdy day of writing and reading Paradise lost and taking notes on it. Hoorah. I'm excited, actually, as Paradise Lost is wicked. For real(s).

I was walking home today after my classes and I passed a man with a bag of leaves and he gave me the biggest smile.

It made me wonder what was really in that bag of leaves.

Tell Me Who Of Them Will Come To Be, How Many Of Them Are You And Me

I'm listening to 'Past Time Paradise' by Stevie Wonder waaay too much.

So, five days into NANO and I'm wicked behind. But, I am determined to write not only because I am shaming my good name by not keeping up, but because Angus told me to, and as a return favour for the ride home, I shall. Yeah, it's a lame pay back. Oh well. My bad?

Speaking of my bad, walking into my house tonight, I fell over my boots, then my high tops then caught myself on my shoelace to end up tumbling into the wall. I am the living end, huh? Oh well.

November 10, Cool Hand Luke is playing on the AMC network. I'm all excited. I've never seen it and I'm trying to get the classics in while I can. And next Tuesday, a double Jimmy Stewart feature, Vertigo and Rear Window, omg. I mean, really. How delightful! I cannot help but watch those movies though I have seen Rear Window way too many times, and Vertigo close to that. I would be set if Harvey was also on. That right there is my favourite Jimmy. Well, no, wait, Philidelphia story, when him and Cary are in the change room? Yep.

Um, yeah. I'm a bit of a movie whore. Oooh well.

I'm kinda digging The Weepies at the moment. And Hot Hot Heat. I miss those fellows.

Candy Gonna Ride Your Soul

It is not good news that 'nothing is wrong' when you are in pain. Just so you know.

Varick and Ben might come see Night of the Living Dead with me, hooha! Nothing says I'm devouted to getting my paper due monday done as well as getting on NANO like going to see a random zombie flick.

Paradise Lost by the Dashboard Light

Night of the Living Dead is being shown on Friday night, as a post Halloween Zombie flick.

I kind of want to go. But...I am failing at thinking who would go see it with me. Bummer. It might be a solo zombie endeavour.

Got To Be More Careful When You Walk The Streets Alone

You never realize how sick you were until you see the state of your room afterwards. Good gracious.

I got Kevin Smith's book in the mail a few days ago and want to read it so very badly. But I've still got to finish Dexter, pretend to read Great Expectations, read Raw shark Texts, and The Book With No Name (that gets more and more tempting as I look at it). As well as waiting patiently for Hugh Laurie's new book in the mail. Not really patiently so much as checking the mail box like ever twenty minutes. I cannot wait. His writing just relaxes me, I don't know why.

I am loving the House soundtrack. It was worth the $14 I shovelled out for it, certainly. 'Got to be more careful' and 'Beautiful' (covered by Elvis Costello) make it wonderful, though one of my all time favourite songs, 'Feelin' Alright' by Joe Cocker is also there to appeal my whiney inner voice that says I am spending too much money on shit lately. Shut up, inner voice, and listen to the music.

That's good advice in general, really. Shut up and listen to the music.

On that pretentious note...I'm off.

I Lost My Faith In The Summer Time

Still no idea for NANO. Though I know I want to write it about two people, friends/whatever, who have chats like I have with friends. Vain, maybe. But come on. I would need to credit like Ben and Varick and James for almost every other line, but hey. whatever.
Think about it. Like this, based off a discussion Ben, Varick and I had after watching Red Dragon. Mainly me ranting to B & V.

"I think my greatest fear is putting my fingers in somebody's face socket."

"'Face Socket'? You mean mouth?"

"No, I mean face socket. Like if someone got shot in the face at close range by a shot gun, I would not want my fingers in the socket left in their face. And who calls mouths 'face sockets'?"

"It was a wild stab in the dark, an attempt to decode your verbal rubix cube gone awry."

"It would be gross."

"Back to the face sockets. Thank God. I felt incomplete with that close."

"I would be so discontent."

"Imagine the owner of the face socket."

"Oh, God, I don't think I can. They'd be so gross."

"Of course. That would be their main issue, naturally, that you thought them gross. Never mind the gaping hole where their face used to be."

And yeah. So, I dunno. Just need plot, characters and that stuff, but I so have dialogue going.

Just the nature of my Game

Has anyone ever watched the sympathy for the devil (Rolling Stones, kids!) video from Rock and Roll circus and thought 'what's up with the fake Tats, Mick?' besides me?

Not that I don't like them.

Just Tune In, Tune Out, Drop In, Drop Out, Switch On, Switch Off, Explode.

Did you ever think about Lucifer before he fell?

Like, think about it, really. He was the most beautiful of God's angels, he was full of pride and damn he was pissed that man not only got free will but dangly bits ('Wait..what are-No. What?! What are those, Lord? I...Damn it!') to have fun with on the long weekends they had when there were bank holidays and the like.

Speaking of dangly bits, saw Elizabeth:The Golden Age.

Yeah.

Anyway, opened this post with an interesting premise, didn't I? Huh? Huh? Got my compliment diggin' boots on, y'all. To bad I'm not following through with it. I'm thinking about it, sure, but it doesn't mean I'm going to share my thoughts. What do you think I am, some kinda person who spreads my mind's legs and gives away it's thought virginity? Huh? An idea sharing WHORE?

I don't know...where that came from. Sorry.

I'm just feeling rather scattered, truthfully. Listening to Beatles music (For No One is sex in song form, just so you know. Yes, you.) and wondering around my house, much, I'm certain, to my roomates' (all of 'em) confusion. I should be thinking of topics for my papers due by the end of the monthish. I should be thinking about NANO and what the eff I'm going to write (ps, am a ML though that hasn't gone through yet. Looking forward to having 'municipal liaison' under my name in posts). But no. I'm thinking dirty thoughts about the Devil and Michael, the Arch Angel. And thinking about watching The Three Musketeers, because Kiefer Sutherland as Athos is just so wrong it's right. Or perhaps Boondock Saints, but I'm not really in the mood for a movie about vengenance. Though, one could say The Three Musketeers had elements of that, one could also say 'fuck it, Kiefer Sutherland is in it'. Which I do, often, say about things. That have Kiefer in them. Or things that don't, to confuse those around me.

'In this way, Mr.K will challenge the world...With the blue people! They're...groovy! Just great!'

Eddie Izzard makes me smile in general, but in Across the Universe? Uh.

When You Change With Every New Day, Still I'm Going To Miss You

Oh my fuck.

Spoiler for House here, so like...Don't read it if you don't want to hear it.

BUT OH MY FUCK.

I don't care what context it was in, I don'tcareIdon'tcareIdon'tcare, House told Wilson he loved him. I am taking it and running with it, jumping around and waving my Hilson flag with pride, bitches. Cameron got a sarcastic I love you, Stacy got an in pain one...And Wilson got a 'I am trying to pass this off as a joke but Lilly doesn't care because she knows, she knows!' one. Yep. Not because he was giving him more pain killers, no.

That aside. Sadness. And woe that the blond bitch was who he paged. The idea of Wilson being the one to get his heart going again? Too sweet. But sigh.

Anyway. I should really be running to class. But. Thought I would vent.

You Don't Need No Reason Or A Three Piece Suit To Argue The Truth

Well. I've been lame lately (see: w(here)tf is all my blog entries I said I'd do?), so I figured I'd start fresh. Hey hey, it's a info post! I did this a while back for some character profiles and the like, so why not for myself? Hm?

Ten Things You May or May Not Have Known About Lilly(Me!)

1. When I was little, my brother and I were kickin' it on the teeter totter swing when I fell off. Sadly, my brother kept on rollin' and bam. My two front teeth were shattered, so the bottom halves of those two teeth are fake.

2. I read out loud when I'm alone. I do the voices. I did this an insane amount when I was reading Hugh Laurie's book, The Gun Seller. Mind, I can hear his voice over mine. I did this often, as well, when Snape spoke in the harry potter books, mimocking Alan Rickman. I'm weird like that.

3. I love the television show 'Jonathan Creek'. No one has heard of it. For reals. I also love House, M.D., but the entire world over has heard of it. (House/Wilson=otp)

4. The song 'Minnie the Moocher' (either sung by Danny Kaye or Hugh Laurie) always, no doubt about it, cheers me up. If you look at the lyrics, that might seem odd.

5. From summer of grade ten on, my two friends and I tried to read as many shakespeare plays we could get our hands on. We read through these on the beach, at my friend's cottage, on the water front in Windsor and in Tim Hortons. We read Hamlet, A Midsummer's night Dream, Richard III and Much Ado About Nothing. Othello was our next in line.

6. In Grade 12, I stared in the play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead with my best friend as Guildenstern and myself as Rosencrantz. The idea of doing the play for Dramafest came from seeing the Gary Oldman/Tim Roth film version of the play. I learned my lines in two weeks, due to massive procrastination, and my email comes from one of my favourite moments in the play, where they are playing 'Questions'. That year was no doubt my favourite year at Dramafest, even if it was only my second. People were awed by our ability to remember all our lines, do it in accents and deliver it so comically. I was in awe of the fact that I wasn't sick backstage before each cue.

7. A note on accents: I have the problem of being overly dramatic in the use of accents. Every once and a while, I will slip into one, comfortable there though it might seem odd to others. It started with doing British accents with my best friend, then it spiraled out. I picked up Scottish because we did a play called 'Mmmbeth' and I was Mmmbeth (I play male roles often. I like them more, simple as that. And I don't have the most womanly figure. I can pull off looking like a guy almost, unlike Kiera Knightley), then Australian because of an exchange student friend, Russian due to a 'Waiting for Godot' workshop where we decided it best that Vladimir had a russian accent (complete with broken english of the lines), and it just keeps going. I mimock a lot.

8. I am horribly nervous about being social. Once I get into a situation, I am fine, but leading up to anything (parties, outings, what have you) I get antsy. I hate being late to things, but I also hate being the first one there.

9. I suck at editing. I hate reading over my work more than once to fine tune.

10. I like hanging out with people and talking. Like, sitting around on couches or something. It is like one of my favourite things in the world. Laughing and talking about shit, making up stories. It is my crack. I love to talk.

Aaaand yes. That about wraps it up, kiddies. No, Lil needs some food.

(When did I start talking in third person, sounding like Liza with my 'tude? I dunno.)

Combat Baby

Said it all before...

I laughed with a man on the bus today.

Why do people look at you with 'that look' when you smile at them? Is it not a natural thing to do anymore? Was it ever? I'm not sure.

I've not been back three days and my apathy has returned. It's like nothing changes, but yet I know it has. I know I'm fucking miles from home, I know that school starts in a few days, hell, I know I just bought House season three on DVD, but yet I feel...like I could sit around all day and just exist like that. Not go out. Just sit around my room. Stare blankly sometimes, actually do stuff at others, like watch those dvds, write, whatever. I feel like I'm going through motions that, if I make a wrong step during them, I get antsy. Fuck it.

So emo, that paragraph, what.

Want to hear something weird? I've only been back in town a few days and I've seen my ex twice (once with James, once while driving by on a bus), a fellow I was in history class with, a guy from my english class and two people from my first semester latin class. Wtf?

Aaaanyway. Enough of this. I have House to watch, books to read and sleep to be having. Moooore later. Watch for it.

See the World

I find myself staring into space a lot lately.

I'm going to update this like whoa in like..a week, K? K.

One Man's Story Is Another Man's Shame

This is a story post.

Last August, the twenty fifth, to be exact, I was to leave home for the first time, off to Newfoundland to attend university there. I was nervous, I was fretful, my makeup was running and I was four hours early for my flight time. My mother had to attend a funeral, and I was rather understanding, for I hate being late for anything, at all, so being that early would give me time to adjust and settle and...Read my new Anne Rice novel (Blood and Gold, oy vey, love). I checked my luggage, I hugged my mother goodbye, nodded at my (now soon to be step-father) mother's boyfriend, David, and was off to go through security. I was okay.

I arrive at my gate, still another three and a half hours to go, and settle down, my carry-on on the chair beside me, my sweater to the side and my eyes not being able to settle on the words of my book, but rather people watching. I like doing that, another reason I didn't mind being early. It was about eight in the morning, and a tall fellow with long hair and a very kind smile walked by, giving me a nod. Returning it, I thought to myself 'Well, wasn't that nice' and finally settled into my seat to read.

Half an hour passed, and I'd gotten through maybe four pages, my eyes flying up whenever someone passed, which, as you can well imagine in an airport, happened often. However, one of these glances up was rewarded with the sight of the same tall fellow with long hair, smiling at me again. I smiled back, thinking 'Oh, how lovely, he's back' and thought that would be the end of the affair, but no. The fellow came over to sit diagonally across from me, and crossed his legs, and kept smiling.

Well, that was a delightful surprise.

Saying 'Hi' seemed like the right thing to do at this point, so, naturally, he did, and not I, for I was taken aback (for I get stupid around fellows I find attractive, and this fellow certainly was attractive, and not only by my hideously low physical ones, he was truly attractive, I assure you all, though that is not the point of this tale).

'Hello' I replied, rather intelligently and warmly, if I do say so myself, to which he asked 'How are you?' and I said 'Nervous.' and it really kicked off from there. His name was Marlon (after the actor and not Keith Richard's son, we discussed) and he was a nurse (or in-training to be one), and was in Nova Scotia to take pictures for a wedding. We talked about how I was just heading off to university and was nervous, and then, somehow, we got on the topic of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and how I had never heard the radio version, though I had loved the old BBC series (my dad having shown them to me one weekend, straight through), and suddenly his laptop was out and I had moved across the aisle and was sitting beside him, an earbud in my ear as we listened to the radio series. He pointed out it was 'better than reading Anne Rice' and we snickered together about the '...Behind the door marked 'Beware the Leopard'' line, mainly because I found it rather funny, and he seemed to think it was funny that I was giggling so. It was relaxing, and sadly, soon enough, my flight was being called. He was there for another few hours, his flight to British Columbia not leaving for some time.

I never got his email, I never asked him his last name, and as soon as I was on the plane, still smiling about it all, I was rather upset about that. He was a clever fellow. And I, obviously, still think about him time to time. Mainly recently, for some reason or another. He made me feel so much better for heading off to Newfoundland without any idea of what I was getting into, and he was so very friendly.=. Listening to the Hitchhiker's Guide with him was beyond lovely, gorgeous and spectacular, and I do wish I had had the sense to perhaps keep in contact. He seemed like a nice guy, someone easy to talk to. And it never hurts to have that. I had been worried about making new friends, for, although I am a nice and interesting person, I swear, I can be rather shy or over-whelmed in social situations. What if, once I got to university, I didn't make any new friends? What if no one wanted to talk to me in classes? I was worried, and yet, this fellow made those worries disappear. People were nice in the outside world, they were!

And it wasn't a romantic thing, and it's not that I have a crush on him. I just like people who are good listeners and talkers and clever-fun conversationalists, and he was one.

Sometimes, though, I do think of it as it was; a wonderful experience that won't go any further. He was a passing character in my life. But goodness, he was a nice one.

Hmph.

Lovely...Never Ever Change.

You know what I like?

Warm rain. Just nice, warm rain. A lot of it, pouring down in buckets.
When you can hear the accent of a singer in their music (see: Malcolm Middleton).
Satire. Parody. Clever mockery of things, to a degree.
Wordplay and wit.
Puppies.
House, M.D. and the friendship of Greg House and James Wilson (Though God knows I want it to be more than friendship).
Too many actors to list (Though Hugh Laurie has been a love-of-my-life for some time now).
Watching those actors in interviews or movies or television shows.
Guitar music.
Lakes, with calm, smooth surfaces, clear as glass.
Wandering aimlessly with friends.
People who talk with their hands.
Short hair cuts on girls.
Long hair cuts on boys.
Freckles.
Light and fluffy snow in mid-December.
Christmas specials on television.
Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye.
M*A*S*H.
Big boots.
Talking with accents.
References in films, TV or books that I get, but few others don't.
Rock Musicals.
Harmonica music.
Monty Python, A Bit of Fry and Laurie, Jeeves and Wooster and Black Adder (II-IV, III especially).
Playing the piano.
Writing random nonsense, my thoughts, stories, porn for friends, and so on.
Emails from friends that I'm not expecting. Emails from friends that I am expecting.
The word 'cello'.
Making people laugh.
Making myself laugh.
Playing with makeup.
Dress-up.
British slang.
Biopics.
Stories about Serial Killers ( the Hannibal Lector series, the Dexter series, American Psycho).
Inside jokes that I'm a part of.
Hugs.
People asking me things because they know I'm knowledgable on the subject.
Ice cream.
Nicknames.
Silly photoshoots.
Wearing jeans with no socks, and people who do the same.
Talking about nothing/everything.
Drawing with sharp pencils.
Writing with pen.
Acting.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
Minor characters' stories being told (Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead).
Listing things.

Aha.

When the Scottish Sing

God, I wish I had more romance in my life.

I'm not interested in dating, though. Like, I want a story-book romance, something like Belle and the Beast, but with less singing cutlery. Those forks scared the shit out of me as a kid. Still do.

I want to find the one without having to go through the other guys. Maybe it's laziness. I like to think it's trust issues, though. I don't want to trust anyone enough to hurt me because I've seen friends be hurt again and again and well, forgive me if I'm not falling all over myself to get all up in that action, yo. I just want the guy who is right for me to be the one I give my trust to, and everything to be peachy keen.

Hey, hey, hey, I can hear the thunder of the clouds y'all have prepared to rain on my parade, and it sounds suspiciously like 'suck it up, princess', but damn it, No. I don't want to be hurt, I don't want to risk that, and I flat out hate embarassment. And with the one 'ex' moment I had at a grocery store (the thunder is now sounding like 'ONE ex moment?! Let me tell you, bi-otch, it gets WORSE') I Do NOT want it to happen again. I am open rather soon in the relationships I form, be it romantic or friendships, and I don't like the idea of someone going about who doesn't like me anymore knowing my life story. AndNO, I will not alter myself to be less open, because that is who I am and I rock that role.

And I keep dreaming about being in a relationship with this or that male, to make it all the more difficult for me not to think about this shit. And both my best friends are in relationships and have been for some time now, and it's like life is making me a third wheel no matter what. No blame goes to them (my friends), of course, and I don't actually feel like a third wheel quite often (having been the friend of a couple has weeded that instinct out of me over the years, as well as the fact that one or the other friend have been taken for several years now, steady) but life seems to think I would and will be ashamed of my singleton status and update to taken by the next fellow who seems acceptable.

F.U.C.K.

Dream a Little Dream Of Me

Last night I dreamt of my ex-interests of the past. Bless my sub-counscious for making them all far more attractive than both they and I deserve credit for, but it was an interesting trip down memory lane. I always find the most disappointing thing about dreams is that they don't always end, you know? I have so many cliff hanger dreams kicking about. I just want to know how they end.

Though all the fellows of my dream shall remain nameless ( my most recent ex not actually making an appearance, for I thankfully woke up), it was certainly a start to look at the differences between those fellows I found attractive over the years. I know I have always been of the school of thought that since I am no 10, I cannot wish for more than...Oh, say a 6 to like me. My standards in physical attraction are quite low because of that self-esteem thing I have going, so it makes it all the more dreadful to look at the homely fellows of years past. I think, after that dream, my standards shifted. Seriously. Homely, homely fellows, some of them. All of them. It's just sad.

However, as I've mentioned before, I do have the issue of tearing boys apart within a week of actually dating them. They are no longer attractive, no longer intelligent, they are just annoying pricks with dicks (or vice versa, if you please). I dislike being around them and having to do things with them. I'm told I will eventually find someone I don't mind being around, that I can hang out with, but forgive me if I am pessimistic. I don't care that I haven't been at this dating thing for long, I'm not one to 'keep on truckin'. Fuck that. When everyone else is still truckin', I'm resting on the curb, sick and tired of that shit.

I've prematurely reached my dating climax. No one is satisfied, this way.

Today I Met The Boy I'm Gonna Marry

I want to meet Jimmy Stewart. The usual complications of one of the two parties meeting being dead arises, of course, but all that exhuming aside, I want to meet him. He was such a gentlemen, those who worked with him say, and I think he would have been a complete doll. I want to marry a man like Jimmy Stewart.

Or perhaps like Cary Grant. So classy, debonair, handsome; what else could a girl want? A talented actor, and his delivery? Sublime. His real named was Archibald. Would I have to call him that, or could I stick with Cary, or Mr.Grant, if we were feeling kinky? Who cares. The man was a hunk with a voice that cut through the air like a hot knife through butter, much like the sexual tension he caused in every scene he was in with any leading lady (and one scene he was in with Jimmy Stewart).

Oh, wait. Danny Kaye. That's who I want my husband to be like. Funny, witty, charming and talented in the musical and dance areas. How could one not want to tap that? Again, with the dead thing, it's illegal and all, and not really respectful, but I'm just saying. That man always makes me smile in all his films, he has such a lovely voice and sweet expressions, one cannot help but melt (like butter when a hot knife is put in it. See? See how I connected those two? Yeah. Pretty awesome.) when he parades across one's screen. Oh, girlish sighs and squees abound, kiddies.

Oh, oh, what about Hugh Laurie? Uh, and he's still alive! Married with children, but it beats Dead by a long shot. His writing makes me smile and laugh out loud (much to the dismay of the woman sitting next to me on the plane home) and his mannerisms are beyond adorable. He is not only comedically talented but can do Drama and goodness, is the man modest. I gush. I gush like mad. He is string-beaned love, and certainly has gained the title of one of my favourite actors over the many years of my crushing over Prince George in Black Adder. I think it was his giant trousers.

I think I'm romantically doomed. Thanks to my 'obsession' (I put quotes to try and ease the minds of innocent viewers at home. 'Oh, she put quotes, so she cannot possibly be obsessed, really, right?' Aha.) with leading men, I don't know how I'll find a guy who lives up to my ideal. It doesn't help that the leading men I fancy have such contradicting traits, either, I'm sure. It's weird.

An example: When watching the movie 'Man of the Year' with an ex (who wasn't past tense in the relationship department at that moment), I thought to myself that Robin Williams was far closer to what I want than the fellow trying to cop a feel during the film. And it's not the characters of these actors, luckily, that I fall for, but what they portray themselves like in interviews and bios and the like. Sigh.

However. I know that they are just regular men with talents in the acting genre, and that other regular men like that exist, but...Gosh darned if I don't want those ones rather than second best. But, who knows? I might tear them apart and find all their faults in a week or less, too, if I were to date them. Maybe it's me who has a problem.

Then again, maybe I'm fucking perfect.

All for One and One For All

I think being a muskateer would have been an awesome occupation in 17th century France. It would beat being a starving peasant, for starters, and you'd get an awesome outfit. Also, there would be the benefit of getting taught wicked swordsplay and fighting skills, as well as honour, the art of being noble ( in blood and in practice ) and all the action you could shake a stick at.

I would hope, if I were a muskateer, Jeremy Irons would portray me in a feature film. He plays a lovely muskateer, I must say. Though, my favourite muskateer would have to be D'Artagnan, Jeremy's came in a close second. If only he wasn't a priest, he would most likely come in first, but all that God buisness was a bit of a turn-off. Blasphemous, I know, but-well, a girl can't help what blows her skirt up, now can she?

I've always been rather interested in the noble and heroic figures of each century, and not only because of the romantic side of it all ( e.g. A knight in shining armour, or Richard Gere) . Really, the idea of being a damsel in distress disgusts me, so it was never about that, I find. I never understood those stories. Talk about opposites attracting. How could a man who lives by the blade and loves adventure and danger want to marry a woman who faints at the sight of a nasty look? Puh-lease. Yeah, I am so strongly against it, I write out catty retorts.

I love the idea of Knights. That would explain my major, I suppose. I find the idea of a society so puffed up in it's own time to try and become like the words written about it so damned intriguing. Knights began as hired men, merely workers, Knight being a job description and not a title. Then, over a mere century, they became heroes of stories across the land, and being a Knight went hand in hand with being a noble. Insane. Like. Whoa.

I've never read the Muskateer novels (known as the D'Artagnan romances), but I think I might do that over the summer. I've seen two of the films (The Three Muskateers and The Man in the Iron Mask). I have plenty of books to read already, but what's another classic or two (or three, really...) .

Anyway, I'm tired, my wrist hurts, and I'm thirsty, so I think I'll call it a night. In a bit.

What's Up, Houston, What's Up?

I don't get women.

Today I watched the film 'Friends with Money' and that fact became more and more obvious as the film went on. Every action these female characters took baffled me; every fit, every smile, every thing. I just don't get them. Perhaps it is because I am not married, or have ever been in a serious relationship, which seems to be some key to knowing what the hell is wrong with women.

Mind, I don't get men, either, but I am closer to cracking that code than the puzzle that is femininity. They (as in men) seem to have it a bit easier at times in the social department. I'm sure this is not the case all the time, and I'm hardly condemning the average penis card-holders to the grey area of no drama (for they are saving it for their mamas), and I am not confused by all women, by all means, but in general, I find myself more at ease with males. Lucky I'm heterosexual (or a Het), or I would have an even worse time dating.

I think I'm socially inept, really. I have times of utter indifference to socializing, and would rather sit around watching movies, and others I want to go out and wow the world with my wicked self (Cue giggling. See: Below).

You know what? Screw it. I have House to watch.

The Beginning Of A Beautiful E-Relationship

When I grow up, I want to be a brillant prose writer; pretending to know what I'm writing about though I've never lived it, pretending to know what my characters are thinking though they do not exist, thus do not think (see: I Think Therefore I Am), and pretending to know I am the best at what I do and can write worth two shits of a dime-store clerk. I want to introduce myself as 'a writer' and not feel like puking and blushing simultaneously as I excuse myself from the conversation. I want to wow the world with my wit, and stop giggling when I accidently use alteration (though that day will most likely never come, and I am secretly happy about that).

After that, I want to be a junkie. Not on drugs, of course, I'm too classy for that and far too squeamish; No, I want to be a junkie on something else, something that agrees with me. Pornography, perhaps. I want to wear long sweatshirts and tight-eighties jeans and get away with not brushing my hair, though it would always be clean. I want to have runny mascara and mutter to myself about 'life' and 'art' and have those rants sound like they do need air quotes when I spoke of them. I want to sleep on a mattress on the floor in the middle of a room with no furniture and think it chic. I want to write long rambling letters to friends about my life in the furniture-less room with my messy hair and my 'art', and making wonderful observations about the world around me, so that when envelopes with my writing on them arrived in the post, people would smile.

Then I want to make people smile. I love to laugh, and I want to share that. I like the idea of being a stand-up comic or a talk-show host, but have no idea where to start. I just want to laugh and giggle and snicker with the actors I know and love. I think Jeff Goldblum would be an amazing verbal sparing partner.

I'd like to be in a band.

I want to act. I want to be in a film that people talk about for good reasons and I want to go to the Oscars and take along a friend who would love the night as much as I would. I want to put on a different accent. I like the idea of having a professional do my eye-makeup. I would want to help pick out the soundtrack, to better fit my character. E! would get my greatest 'red carpet' smile as I told them about my life on the matress and how much I owed to Baby. I like the idea of being cryptic with the media. I'd hug big stars as if we knew each other for years, though I only made one big film and they didn't even know my real name (I would drop my last name and find another one, of course). I would start with Hugh Laurie; he has nice arms.

Then I would become a washed-up hack. I want a game-show to host, or perhaps a series of novels only die-hard fans would read, and even then it would only be to see if I had truly lost it. And I would. Loose it, that is. My hair would be messy again, and my jeans would be traded in for pajama bottoms with Scooby-Doo on them, and a baggy t-shirt that said 'NYPD', though I never was a cop or played one on T.V.. I would wear huge sunglasses and a hat when I went shopping, though no one would recognize me anyway, and if they did, they would think me someone I wasn't, and ask for an autograph (Which I would give, so starved for the stardom I gave up). I would miss my characters from my prose of yesterday. I would begin talking to them. In Public.

My E! True Hollywood story would have many commerical breaks, advertising Dove shampoos and Kellog's Special K cereal.

At my funeral, I want 'You Can't Always Get What You Want' to be played. Like in 'The Big Chill'. Perhaps William Hurt will attend my services, too. I want big gawdy flower arrangements with lilies in them, but only because of my name. No other meaning. I don't even like them that much. I want someone to cry for me, but they have to be wearing mascara that is not water proof to get the full effect. I want a woman in a wide-rimmed hat and Jackie-O sunglasses to weep at my grave, dabbing her handkerchief at her eyes with her white kid-gloved hands trembling. I want to have made a difference. I don't want any of my true friends to cry, just the woman in the mascara and the lady with the wide-rimmed hat. They would be paid in full afterwards.

I like the idea of all this.
But I won't practice what I preach.