Congratulations, Chamber of Secrets!

You are no longer the most boring Harry Potter movie!

[Begin Spoiler for HBP Review, in which I say "UGH" a lot. ... Metaphorically. — Highlight to view]

If you haven't seen it yet, maybe you shouldn't read this. I mean, I don't know. I don't want to ruin things for you. I've seen a lot of very positive reviews, and much internet chatter saying that this was "ZOMG Best One Ever!!!" and, frankly, you may agree. I don't want to take the possibility that you may agree away from you. But me, I'm profoundly disappointed right now.

The profundity of my disappointment is due, in main, to the fact that this is the first time it's happened. This is the first time I've sat in a theater, watched a Potter film, and as the credits began to roll thought: "I didn't like it. It wasn't good. I am disappointed." And in fact, it started before that. At some point I started to fretfully realize that the film wasn't going well. I had the horrible suspicion that it wasn't good, and I wasn't going to walk away liking it. I tried to shove that feeling down, but it would not be denied.

And just so we're clear - I'm not talking about things cut or things changed. I do not care. Frankly, I think they could have cut more than they did. If I've said it once, I've said it (and you've read it) a thousand times: I am not a book adaptation purist. In fact, and this may be the linguist in me, I sort of love seeing the changes and the omissions - the translation of the story from book to screen. Book and screen are two languages I'm fluent in, so this is a thrill I can't as yet receive from actual languages. As a stand-alone entity, the movie is mediocre. As a translated retelling of the book, it's mediocre.

That's the thing - it's not flat out bad. And, of course, being Potter, there were parts of it that I liked and enjoyed seeing brought to life, and I'll probably talk about those further on if this doesn't get tediously long before then. But the whole of it did not hang. Altogether, it was dull and lackluster and boring. Even the explosions felt muted and clinical; how the fuck do you make SHIT BLOWS UP into something boring? I'm not sure, but this film managed it.

The problem is, I suspect, two-fold: lazy screenwriting and ineffective directing. Let's start with the first. HBP is rather plot-lite. I mean, in terms of the overall fight of good vs. evil. The book makes up for with a lot of (sometimes awkward) color. I think this is why I can't decide where HBP falls in my book rankings. I love it, but it's ultimately filler. The script takes two plotlines: the learn-about-Voldemort plot and the teen-romance plot, and half-asses both of them. The memory scenes felt like filler, but then so did all the other scenes. Which one is the A-plot?

Then, there's the criminal misuse of Alan Rickman. At the end, where he reveals himself to be the Half-Blood Prince, my eyes rolled of their own accord, and I had to suppress a WHO CARES. Because, honestly, who gives a shit at that point? The whole thing is a side-note, there's no suspense regarding the Prince's identity, and it adds nothing to the story. If it weren't the title of the goddamn movie (which should have been a hint), they would have been better off cutting it entirely. Finally, it was a stupid coda to a scene that was already robbed of most of its emotional resonance.

I'm going to slip in here that the best performance of the film was given by Tom Felton, hands down. I don't think that he, personally, could have done anything more to make his part awesome. But his part, too, was ineptly pared down. From what I can tell onscreen, things seem to be going pretty well and then after a small setback suddenly Draco's sobbing in a bathroom. It makes his emotional turmoil at the end feel shallow and not fully convincing. If not for the aforementioned skill of Mr. Felton, I probably wouldn't have cared at all.

And here's the thing: WHO CARES? Well, I do. Or did, anyway. I cared walking into the theater. I've been caring for over a year waiting for this movie to come out. Hell, I've been caring for half my life at this point. If they couldn't keep my sympathies, they did something wrong.

Now I'm going to talk about directing. And I'm going to talk about directing with the authority that I've actually directed stuff, and because this is my blog and you love me you'll refrain from pointing out that I've never directed anything on film and therefore sound like a jerk. Good deal? Alright. So, I've decided that I don't think David Yates is a good director. This makes me sad because I would really like it to be otherwise. And ... I don't know. I'm not saying he's Chris Columbus by any means. He's not bad like that. But I feel he may be out of his league trying to direct something on this large a scale. I was hoping that all he needed was a chance to find his footing, but this film took all the things that didn't work in Order of the Phoenix and magnified them, which means all that's happening is he's just getting more confident with his mistakes.

If you watch any interviews with David Yates, you'll find that he's very unassuming and soft-spoken. I feel like he projects that personality onto his work. There were literally times when I was struggling to hear the dialogue. And his big thing seems to be reining the actors in - pushing for more subtlety. And I'm all for that! I enjoy subtlety in acting! But when subdued acting is your raw material, you need to do more to bring the audience into it. The transitions here are dead. The pacing is terrible. The beats are stilted and awkward. Like with OOTP, I found that I liked scenes individually, but it was a pain and a half getting "into" them. And GOOD GOD save me from David Yates and his wide shots. I'm serious. I get what he's going for, I think. Putting the audience at a distance from the characters makes the characters seem more intimate with each other. But it doesn't make the audience intimate with the characters. Sometimes we need to get right up in their business to remember why we like them. And always, techniques in moderation, please.

Also, for all the "humor" supposedly in this film - no one laughed. Like, ever. At one point I remember finding something funny and wanting to laugh, but feeling stifled by the fact that no one else was laughing. Frankly, Daniel Radcliffe does comedy really well. Harry on Felix Felicis was hilarious. And yet, awkward. Again, the beats. Jokes were over and gone before people realized they'd been made. David Yates may know how to get good performances out of actors, and I'll admit I think he does, but he has no idea how to craft a scene.

The cinematography, on the other hand, was gorgeous. This is probably one of the prettiest films I've seen in some time. But it wasn't put to good use either. It was like a mirror: shiny, cold, flat, and with no life other than what you project onto it.

Also, just throwing this out there: the score didn't match up with the action. I don't know whose fault that was.

I will have to admit, though, that the Inferi scene was bad-ass. I jumped, even though I saw it coming. I was nearly on the edge of my seat, but at that point, I was already suffering from numb disappointment, so it was hard to really live in the moment.

Dumbledore's death scene was well done, but felt somewhat inorganic and emotionally manipulative after the flatness of everything that preceded it. Oh, hands raised in solidarity! Lights in the sky! Haunting music! Again: WHO CARES.

And what in the Christing Christ was that line about Harry having never noticed how beautiful Hogwarts was? Aside from perhaps the Burrow, Hogwarts is the only beautiful place Harry has ever seen. FAIL, Kloves.

[End Spoiler]

I guess I'm done for now. I feel rather incredibly down. So, I'm going to go make what may be the best cookies known to man. If you read all this, and especially if you reply, please let me know if you would like me to send you one.

Update for the sake of updating.

I am still sad, and nothing has felt interesting enough to blog about, but I figured it was time to bump the dead cat post from the top of the list.

It was suddenly a billion degrees over the weekend, and I was ill. I figured the best thing to do would be to annihilate Madagascar with Fluffy Kitten Amoebic Encephalopathy, but the only time I managed to get them, Canada screwed me over by closing its borders and developing a vaccine. Curse you, socialized medicine!

Thank goodness for New Moon filming, though. It has kept me up to my ears in lulz, despite the super secretness of the production. If you ever wondered what happened to Merry's hair from LotR, don't worry. It went to a good home.

Speaking of filming, I may have teared up. I'm not saying definitely, but it might have happened.

Easter Lily.

2002 - 2009


After a wonderful month followed by a horrible week, Lily died on Easter. Perhaps I never appreciated her well-developed sense of irony.

My life: fuck it.

So, I have this external hard drive. And on this I have 90% of all my personal computing business. And no, most of it is not backed up, don't even bother talking about it, now is not the time and I don't want to hear it.

I was playing a video file and it stopped. Not crashed, just started working slowly and poorly. This was my only indication that something was awry. Suddenly my drive is corrupted and unreadable. I turn it off, unplug it, replug it, turn it back on. Windows tells me that the drive needs to be formatted before I can use it. fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

I am now confused and stressed and fearful and upset over the uncertainty. But then, since this is my DEFAULT STATE these days, I'm not really reacting at all. I refuse to lose my shit until I deem it absolutely necessary. I just need to massage my jaw a little maybe.

I am attempting to recover the data, and I do not know how that will go because I have no idea what I'm doing and I'm not thinking clearly. If you have any helpful advice, please feel free to impart it.

In the meantime: fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

ETA - THE ANSWER IS YAY!

Distraction.

I'm just now getting around to doing that picture thing that Jess had in her blog roughly eight billion years ago. I meant to do it, but it looked very labor intensive.





Categories:
1. favorite food
2. hometown
3. favorite color
4. celebrity crush
5. favorite drink
6. dream vacation
7. favorite dessert
8. what I want to be when I grow up
9. name
10. what I love most in the world
11. one word that describes me
12. username

Some sound meant to convey some sort of emotion.

My cat Lily is sick. Kind of very, as it turns out. "... but not hopeless," the vet added. Which does not help at all.

She has an infection in her kidneys. The best guess we have is that bacteria from her mouth (she's had chronic gum infections since we scooped her up as a malnourished kitten) moved around through her bloodstream, and landed there. She also has an enlarged heart, which has nothing to do with that. Just for kicks, I guess.

Right now she's in the kitty hospital, where she will be at least until Wednesday while they give her broad spectrum IV antibiotics. They're doing some cultures to see if a more specific antibiotic should be used. Tomorrow they will ultrasound her kidneys and her heart. All this is just as expensive as it sounds. I hate that this is even a factor, but there you go.

I think I'm burned out on pets. I can't keep on loving them if they're going to keep dying. And, as a certain Fountain of Gold noted, cats die. They don't even live very long.

Not that anything is certain right now. I mean, she could be fine. It's possible. I'm just very freaked out because I thought I would have years until I had to think about this. At least it's not cancer this time.


P.S. Please feel free to continue to give me hair advice.

George Carlin died, you know?

I don't really want to talk about it. But I figured I'd mention it.

Aunt Rose.

My Aunt Rose died on Saturday night.

I wanted to write something out, to acknowledge this and say something about her, but after several attempts I've realized that it's not going to happen. I'm not okay about it. On one hand, she was nearly 96 years old (I mean 94 of course. She didn't want anyone to know how old she was, and even her obituary didn't know the truth. Keep it amongst yourselves.) On the other hand I love her and I'm not ready and it sucks. On a third hand, she's with my Uncle Joe and her children now. On a fourth hand ... I miss them, too. At some moments more than ever.


So for the past few days I've been hanging around with family members that, for one reason or another, I don't see very often. (For the sake of clarity I should note, unless it's my Aunt Rita, who is my father's sister, any time I mention an "Aunt" or an "Uncle", you should assume that it's one of my grandparents' siblings, and that they've been dead at least 15 years.) First, there's Aunt Rose's grandson and his children, who are around my age. My cousins and I have always had this weird sense of rivalry and dislike going on with them, and I really don't even know why. I know that it was handed down from our parents. I think it may be because my cousin Theresa was always a miserable pill all the time. But we liked Theresa, so, really, I don't get it. Truly, they've probably all turned out to be great people, and better people than my cousins at any rate. But I wouldn't even know how to start a conversation with them. The fact that we were crying over the same woman who had so touched our lives while we were standing on opposite sides of the room was interesting, to say the least. Oh, and the one that I had been thinking of as "the baby"? He's, like, sixteen now. The fuck.

Her granddaughter Roseanne was also there, and she's awesome. I used to play with her daughter Kelli when we were very small, but I couldn't talk to her. Literally. She's deaf.

Roseanne's siblings were not in attendance, and my cousin Suzanne was snubbed from the list of surviving family, so that's all you really need to know about that.

Then there were the relatives that I try to avoid because they all became Born Again Christians. I don't mean that I dislike them, but I try to avoid them. See, they're good people, and friendly to a fault, and because of their religious ethics and family values, they'll be first in line to help you if you, say, need to have your house repaired or need help getting out of bankruptcy. But they also sometimes send out Christmas cards with poems about the Judgment Day and how the unbelievers will burn in a lake of fire. Their sense of humor is also seriously lacking. How am I, to whom blasphemy is like a second native language, supposed to handle that? Also, they home-schooled all their children, reinforcing all the worst home-schooling stereotypes in the process. Thanks, guys. Except, I did get to see my cousin Nicole again, and she always seemed pretty sane. She went to school for massage therapy. I wouldn't mind seeing her again. I bet she's awesome.

Then there are my Aunt Rita's children, my lonely two first cousins. ... I don't even want to discuss them, really.

As I sort of expected, I had many relatives gushing that I look just like my grandmother (or, as most of them unsettlingly refer to her, "Aunt Gracie"), and recalling how beautiful she was. She was beautiful, but I don't look like her, and I don't know why they all think I do. I mean, I'm sure I resemble her a little; she is my grandmother. I do look a lot like my father. Of course, I also look a lot like my mother. It depends on which one I'm standing next to. I'd say I'm a fairly even mix, and I'd say my father is an even mix of his parents. So, by that account, I look about one-fourth like my grandmother ... and three-fourths not like her. Really, though, my grandmother had small, round eyes. My eyes are large and almond-shaped. My grandmother had a round nose. My nose comes to a point. My grandmother had an oval face. I have a square face. My grandmother had jet-black curly hair. My hair is chestnut-brown and wavy. Although it has been very humid lately, so it's been curlier. Anyway. I think they're just seeing what they want to see.

I also got to meet my Aunt Madeleine's two children, whom I don't think I've ever met before. Her daughter looks just the way I remember Aunt Madeleine looking. And she also looked a lot like Jenny. It was odd. She hadn't seen my father in some 20 years, so she made a great fresh audience for all the tragic stories of all his maladies. Which he regaled her with, incidentally, while they were both kneeling at the casket. Oh yes he did. My father, ladies and gentlemen.

My Aunt Rose had a brother named Nate that she was just crazy about. I never met him, as he died before I was born, but she talked about him all the time. His full name was Natale D'Amore, which in Italian means "Christmas of Love." Isn't that the best name you've ever heard? His four daughters were there. I'm sure I've never met them before, but they were very familiar to me because they all looked just like Stephanie. It was crazy. They all had similar eyes and noses, and they all had her hair and they all wore glasses. So for a few minutes I pretended that Stephanie was one of my cousins and it made me very happy.

There was one thing that my cousin Michael said to me (one thing that didn't make me want to hit him, anyway) that made me ponder. With Aunt Rose gone, with all the people that we've lost gone, our connection to those other people in that room has pretty much disappeared. Aunt Rose was, as my sister called her, "the last of the dinosaurs." ... I believe she meant it as a compliment. She was the last of all the old relatives, the ones the different branches had in common, the ones that made holiday dinners, the ones that connected everybody. I wondered, more than once, if I would ever see some of these people after this.

We had some adventures getting into the line for the cemetery. Of that cemetery: "Who's there?" I asked my mother. "Everyone," she replied. I saw my Aunt Madeleine and Uncle Neil and Aunt Mary. I saw a few cousins and many familiar names. I looked a little bit for my grandparents, but I didn't really look. As we were driving through, my mother teared up suddenly. I'm sure that's where my sister is. I've never been to a cemetery except when laying someone to rest. I've never felt the urge to go back. Aunt Rose was laid next to her husband, my Uncle Joe. They were married for 60 years, and she'd been without him for 18. They ran short on flowers, so I didn't get to place one. Before I left, I kissed his name with my fingertips.

Brad Renfro is still dead.

I watched the Oscars on Sunday. Apparently not too many people did. Probably because it's usually in March: what the hell?

They got to the memoriam, and by the end I was quite upset. Not because of who they mentioned, but because of who they didn't. That's right, Brad Renfro. My mother claimed that the list was sort of a number of people who'd died last year, but I don't know about that.

When he died, I checked out Access Hollywood, which my mother usually has on while she eats dinner. I was waiting for them to say something, but they never did. A slew of weeks later, the same show released what turned out to be Mr. Renfro's last interview. He looked rough and bloated. He talked about how he hoped people would remember him as a great actor. It was very sad. Afterwards, the video was outtroed with an alarming coldness. "Yeah, he got all fucked up on drugs, now he's dead, let's move on." I'm barely exaggerating. They wouldn't curse on network television, of course.

I don't know. It seems like it's a thing. Why? I really don't understand this, but it's definitely standing in stark relief against, you know, the treatment of that other fellow who died recently.

Parenthetical: (I have nothing against Heath Ledger, nor the outpouring of grief for him. I was honestly not upset by his passing, but I don't mean that to be a remark on him, and any anger or negativity I have is not directed at him. It's merely frustration at this ... thing. Mr. Ledger just happened to die. It's not his fault.)

Seriously, is it just me?

And when they leave, it's godless in the dark.

One of my favorite bodily sensations is something that I've come to call "heartbreak in the gut." Like a lot of things, I'm not sure what this says about me, since, as the description implies, it's not an entirely happy sensation. It feels a bit like negative g - force, just under the ribs, just for a moment. Sort of. What it's really like is like feeling heartbreak, but in your gut.

I guess one of the reasons I like it is because I don't think I've ever felt it as a direct result of something that has actually happened to me. It's in some ways, an empathetic, voyeuristic sort of sensation. I'm most likely to get it while I'm reading a book, or watching a television show, or listening to a song. It comes right as one character says something terribly cruel to another, or when someone sings a lyric of perfect sad beauty. It's ... basically romanticism, manifested physically.

I don't know what it sounds like, but trust me, it's a lot nicer than the feeling that resides in the chest. It's a little warmer, a little safer.

A great source of this sensation is a song I discovered recently. It's a song by a band called The Floors, or The Pelvic Floors, or something like that. Don't Google it. They barely exist. This song was co-written and co-performed by Katell Keineg, a singer-singwriter that I learned about from reading the New York Times Magazine. Seriously. I wouldn't say that it's my favorite song by any means, and it took me a while to really love it. The fact that it's called something silly like "Love Song To My Guru" didn't help, either. But I do now. The lyrics are what got to me. If you're a visitor to the WD, I'll tell you that this is what has been in my bio the past few months. I think they're wonderful. They make my heart break in my gut.

I wanna write a love song to my guru
What can I say
That hasn't already been said
To your face?
I wanna write a heart-rending love story
To bring you to tears
What does it matter
If you never hear?

Batten down the hatches
This will never happen again
But they come in glory, don't they?
And when they leave
It's godless in the dark

I appreciate that "they" is left subjective.

I wish you were dead.

I've been sitting around thinking about something that is probably unique to me. Sometimes, when I'm dealing with an emotionally difficult situation, I long for the simplicity of grieving over a dead loved one.

God, that sounds so fucked up. But it's true. As I've mentioned many times, I've had a lot of practice mourning over people who've died. There have been a lot. Not very many lately, though. That's a good thing. I'm not meaning to suggest that having loved ones drop dead on you is any fun. I'm glad it's been a while. Instead though, in recent years, I've been having embattled emotional interludes with people who remain resolutely alive. Alive, but rejecting me. Alive, but angering me. Alive, but disappointing me.

There's a grieving process that takes place with it. But it's all mixed up and roily and even less fun than grief normally is. And then I wish they were dead.

Sorry folks! It's been one of those days. For a few days. I have not done myself any favors by insisting on listening to The Velvet Underground, Janis Joplin, Devics, and Nina Simone. Oops!

You know.

Sometimes I really wish my sister hadn't died.

Forgive me, I've been in a very odd mood for the last few years.

Life options.

Blogger was down yesterday, so I was deprived of the opportunity to make a post about chocolate milk.

Today I'm weighing a choice between a certain, monetarily-secure, soul-crushing, dream-dissipating life, and an unstable, second-guessing, disappointing attempt to do the only thing I have ever desired. This is not the first time this thought has occurred to me, but I think life would be easier without hope. If my hope would just die, I don't think I would be as vulnerable. If I didn't have hope, I could just give up.

Yesterday was chocolate milk. FYI.

"Nothing."

God. WHY DO I KEEP SAYING THAT?

I had a frustrating and miserable day today. I'm very tired and I wish I could go to sleep and have all my problems magically disappear.

Actually, I completely forget what I was going to say about this, because when I got home I was wired and close to tears, but then I had dinner and some honeydew and now I'm actually pretty cool, just a little sleepy. But the above still stands.

In reference to the title, sometime, somehow, it seems that I became massively passive-aggressive. My answer to everyone, about everything (regarding myself), is "Nothing" or "Not much" or "Okay."

How have I been? Okay.
What have I been up to? Not much.
What did I do today? Nothing.

There's just, apparently, a lot I don't want to deal with right now.

Jack of all trades, quitter of all.

Hello blog! I have not been in a blogging way, lately, as ... well, as no one can tell, because they're probably not reading this. Oh well!

I was not a happy camper last night. I watched some ladies figure skating, and became depressed. I felt very old and adrift in a sea of nothingness. Also, sleepy. So I listened to some Vivaldi and I cried a little.

Then I got up this morning and went to a job interview! Then I had cereal. And next week I have fun activities planned. So, it's cool now. I sometimes have trouble discerning if my moods will be long lasting or not.

This is my update. It is much shorter and much less interesting than I anticipated.

However, I realised that this Monday was February 19th. That's crazy, I didn't even realize it until five days later. I suppose this also means I should wish Jenny a happy birthday. Happy Birthday Jenny!

I must buy things for upcoming birthdays. I'll work on it.

You know, I really hate people.

Some days, I just say that. But on other days, I really mean it.

This is quite the fitting mood, then, with which I can go elect (or not, as the case will probably be) some public leaders. Did I mentioned that I watched the Gubernatorial Debates back ... whenever they had those? Man, that was the most useless hour of my life. Seriously. That's why I'm doing a write-in vote! (Not for Pat, sadly. That's only for president.) Truly exercising my right to throw my vote away. But seriously, all of the major candidates suck so much. It's ridiculous. I'd have rather seen them run footraces and eat live bugs, that's how valuable the whole thing was.

This really doesn't fit into my hateful mood theme, more of an introspective/contemplative mood theme, but I need to get these things out.

I can't believe that I'm as old as I am. Really, I can't. I know that the readership of this blog is people who are up-to-and-including double my age (hee!) but you're just going to have to bear with me on this. I can't believe that I'm not still 15. I can't believe that I'm out of high school. Shit, I can't believe that I'm out of college  ! I've been out of school for over a year! Although, to be fair, I guess I kind of cheated on that account. But honestly, I sometimes feel as though I must have misplaced a bunch of years along the way. I suppose this is really the expression of my feeling that I've gotten a delayed start on life. I feel that way too. I feel like what I'm doing with myself now should have been what I was doing with myself at 15. So what did I spend all that time doing? Nothing, apparently.

Then again, you know, I suppose it really isn't too late to go to law school and learn tennis and devote myself entirely to a pre-mapped life that will never bring me joy. I mean, that's still on the table, really.

Wow. Did you know that it's almost 3 o'clock? Days like this are the reason that I sometimes forget to eat. I've been "making myself lunch" for the past two and a half hours.

"There's no place like 127.86.7.1"

This was on a bumper sticker on a car parked at the Purple House. Three of you know which one I mean. I giggled a lot. A lot.

This morning, I found out that Peter Jennings died, and I fought down tears for almost two hours, because I had to answer phones.

Why are all my ideas for bumper stickers blaphemous?

Man. I don't really like my job. I mean, it's not terrible. Most of the people are pretty awesome. The ladies are great, and really attractive. The young gents are cool, because they haven't developed egos yet. Oh! But BP has left the building, permanently. And he left in the middle of the day, so I didn't have the chance to ask how old he was. Sorry Pat! But then again, I didn't want him to 66 me. I'm in a whole new fandom these days.

Shit. There I go again, saying things that make no sense except to me and maybe one or two other people. I'm tired. That's my excuse.

Anyway, what I don't like revolves around the fact that it's boring. I sit in front of the phone and wait for it to ring. And I can't move too far from it in case it rings. It creates all this unpleasant tenseness in me. Then, there's the fact that I answer the phone. That's my job. Which is insane, because for many years I was petrified of talking on the phone. I think I finally started getting better once I started talking to internet weirdos, incidentally. Like, I remember the first time I called Pat, and he hated talking on the phone, and I hated talking on the phone, but we managed to have a conversation for, like, half an hour. It was pretty cool.

When I was in HiCal this spring, Mary-Jane and I watched American Idol together while the menfolk ditched us and we were charged with the particularly cruel task of calling to order pizza. I volunteered, because I've gotten so much better about this phone thing. Sometimes, I can even pick up the receiver *lazily.*

But I still don't like talking on the phone if I can help it. When I talk on the phone to people I love, my breath still sometimes get shallow and I start gasping for breath. I don't know why. It just does. And while I'm okay at my job, somewhere in me, it still freaks me out. It still causes this tension and unpleasantness, it's just hidden. I'm really relieved when I don't have to be there.

Not that I think I'd be happier in a non-receptionist position. I've always known that I would not do well in an office job. And perhaps I'm being proven right now because I have absolutely no interest in what this company does. It was okay doing clerical business at the McCarter, because I loved what I was doing there, no matter how small.

Here, gruff gentlemen call up and sound irate before I even speak to them. Then I try to put them through to the guy who's always stressed out and never wants to take calls because he gets about fifty a day, and his assistant is never at her desk, so the same person calls back a minute later saying, "Uh, I wanted to talk to [what's his face] and you gave me his secretary's voicemail!"

Sorry dude! This probably wouldn't happen if they could see how cute I am. Alas, they can't. My hair's getting so long again. This makes me happy.

I have this persistent fear that the people on the other end are going to start yelling at me. I hate having to put people on hold, holding my breath until the little beep that tells me that it's been a minute. I don't know what to tell them when one of the gents tells me to lie and say that he's not in the office, like happened today. I don't like lying. I'm not very good at it. And I'm completely sure that the person on the other end knows I'm lying. It makes me feel really unpleasant.

The highlight of my day is coming back from my lunch break (1-2PM EST, during which I typically do not eat lunch, but wonder who I can call up. If you're interested, let me know!) and sorting the mail. Even though half of it isn't addressed to anyone in particular. It kills at least an hour, and nearly two on Mondays.

Here's something good, though: I always have a piece of scrap paper to take down the names and business of people who call in. I've started picking various bits of my scribblings and labelling them "For Enemies." This cracks me up so much. SO MUCH. You have no idea.

OBVIOUSLY.

Which Family Guy character are you?


Tha play's going great, by the way. Come see it! Don't give me that distance crap!

What the hell.

There is someone on my AIM buddy list right now, but it can't be who it was meant to be when I put the name there. The screenname was formerly used by my friend Phil, who died almost two years ago. This is messing with me really bad.

It has been a very emotional day.