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my futon comes straight from the devil

2004-07-01 - 3:11 p.m.

Last night I immersed myself in some sweet sweet Firthy goodness and watched "Girl with a Pearl Earring." It was a beautiful movie, but unfortunately left a LOT out. This is definitely one of those movies where you need to have read the book.

Ditto for "Harry Potter 3." Although sadly lacking in Firthy goodness (really, what film couldn't be improved upon by adding in Colin Firth? Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to express how ardently I love and admire you! You must!), the film was awesome. Cuaron really got a bit on the surreal side with this, and brought some of the darker aspects of the book to the forefront. I was, however, disappointed at the lack of backstory regarding Lupin's and Black's relationship to Potter pere and the rat. I had to fill R in on said relationship, and also explain to him who Moony, Prongs, Wormtail and Padfood were. Amazingly, his eyes did not glaze over during this explanation.

Also, I saw a preview for Catwoman, which left me with really only one question: why? Surely no one cares about the woman so lonely and pathetic she turns into a dominatrix. Yes, Halle Berry, you have certainly taken acting up a notch. Bravo, I say.

In another adventures, R and I spent the weekend during yardwork and sleeping on a goddamn futon. I now have a kink in my neck the size of fucking Alaska. I wake up leaking tears of pain, unable to turn my head to the left. I take Advil all day long, and then when I get home I seek relief in sweet sweet alcohol. Yes, I am self-medicating with alcohol. It works in about half the time it takes the advil to kick in and promotes a much deeper relaxation of the muscles. I have evidently turned into a major fucking wimp, as R has had no ill effects from sleeping on the floor/futon of Satan for the past three weeks. I, on the other hand, am actively engaged in long, drawn-out fantasies involving my bed. "Mmmmm, baby, it's been a while," I say, approaching it. "Your pillows look delectably plump, and your mattress is so firm, yet so yielding." The bed coyly remains silent. "Let's do it tonight. Let's sleep together tonight, just you and me. Or if you want to get wicked, R and the cat can join in." Mmm, I'm getting all....sleepy just thinking about it. They say anticipation heightens the eventual pleasure, which I hope to god is true because I have another few weeks before I get to my bed. My neck tingles just thinking about it, and not in a good way. Rather in a way indicating pinched nerves and violent muscle spasms.

Tomorrow I get my worms, and you can be sure that come Monday there will be a post about the newest members of the Wealhtheow family. Today I told R of my intention to find and join some vermicomposting forums on the web. My big question right now is can we put the cat crap in the worm can. Only when I told him this, I said "Maybe we can put the cat surprises in the worm can." I've become a little squeamish about certain words now that I'm taking up space on the cube farm, and I feel uncomfortable carrying on phone conversations about my cat's feces. But still, I'm not certain why I picked "surprise" as the euphemism of choice. It's hardly a surprise that my cat shits. It's not even a surprise that she shits in her litter box. It's not as though R and I go to scoop her litter and utter little gasps of admiration and delight upon seeing her "surprises." Sometimes I astonish myself, and not in a good way.


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