Tuesday, October 26, 2010
I'm Having A Hard Time Coming Up With A Coherent Title For This One...
I totally felt like Liz Lemon last night. I was in a bit of a slump for several stupid reasons, including (but not limited to) the following:
- The water in the building was turned off for repairs yet again. I think there was a memo about that somewhere but I missed out on it. I discovered this issue when I unsuccessfully attempted to take a shower.
- The reality of being twenty-three. Cliche? Yes, completely. But birthdays always bring along this realization of how quickly time passes and how unknown the future is. Allow me to stop before I become too depressing.
- Frustration with the general male population. Between awkward guys from high school resurfacing five years later to suggest we "grab lunch or coffee sometime," hipster boys disappearing into the night after promising they'll return when they've smoked a cigarette, and Facebook constantly reminding me that my ex-boyfriend is having a jolly good time on his own planet, I think I'm ready to become a nun for a little bit. Except I'm not Catholic. At all. So there goes that plan.
Naturally, I am referring to "Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World." I got married to Michael Cera AND Jason Schwartzman when nobody was looking. Don't feel bad if you didn't know. I don't bring it up a lot because Michael likes his privacy and is a little embarrassed about being involved in a polygamous marriage.
Hi, this post is taking a turn for the weird. Let's return to real life, shall we?
I'm not going to geek out about "Scott Pilgrim" today (mostly because I've already done that). Instead, I'd like to note that going to the movies alone can sometimes be a very satisfying experience. Some people might think it's kind of sad, but I think it's the ultimate independent woman thing to do.
I even treated myself to pizza and root beer from the snack bar. I was about to order PBR (to go with my new-found hipster persona, of course), but then I remembered that I was by myself and therefore could shamelessly indulge in root beer. Root beer > PBR (that's a "greater than" sign, for those of you who failed seventh grade alegebra). Don't tell the hipster police I said that.
Having a cheap theater within walking distance of me is probably a bad idea. I could see myself turning into a character from a Woody Allen film and spending too much time at the movies during the day.
Crap. I am a character in a Woody Allen film. Does that mean Woody Allen is God of the world I live in? If so, I'm doomed. But at least that would explain why I often have the uncontrollable urge to be obnoxiously witty.
This post is weirder than most. Congrats if you made it this far. You are a blog-reading warrior. Gold star for you.
That's all I've got. Peace out, amigos.