traumatised
Last night I dreamed I proposed to Tom Cruise. Why don't I get the good celeb dreams, like scroob does? So not fair. It was one of those annoying, edgy dreams where I was perfectly aware that this was a Really Bad Idea, but did it anyway in a sort of half-assed haze of hopefulness. And he accepted, too, with all the clearly fake plastic enthusiasm you'd expect. No wonder I woke up to one of those subtly irritating days dogged with small annoyances.
In far better news, this weekend I have also re-dyed my hair red (Yay, Herenna the Henna-Haired Harridan!), celebrated Khoi-Boi's birthday by buying him kitchen gadgets and eating evil cake, managed to get an arm-lock on a tricky Holborne recorder piece, made a date for lunch with wytchfynder tomorrow, fed ostrich pot pie and cauliflower cheese to jo&stv, and achieved a transcript of the dodgy chat-room sex scene from Closer by the simple expedient of typing "Closer film chat sex transcript" into Google (a proceeding fraught with potential pron site disaster, but in fact it turned up first link, go figure. I love the Internet. I want to show the clip for my lecture tomorrow, and it just occurred to me that the teeny little TV is going to make the actual words absolutely illegible to anyone not sitting in the front row, thus rendering the whole procedure curiously pointless. I shall console myself by inflicting random Spike clips on a hapless lecture theatre full of non-Buffy-sussed students, poor fools. *cue maniacal laughter*)
On the downside, today I have failed to achieve either the necessary VHS copy of Closer or the video machine configuration that will allow me to tape the clip from DVD. I have also wrenched my ankle, causing really weird knock-on knee muscle bruising, brooded excessively over an annoying phone call yesterday, had a small but perfectly formed tantrum at a failed manoeuvre* in the ongoing war against the bird crap on my car, and played a metric stonkload of Oblivion.
Chaos 1, Order O, I fear. Although it's also my mother's birthday, so there has to be some cosmic positive somewhere. Happy birthday, mother!
* God, that's a horrible word to spell. One more reason not to use pseudo-military metaphor, I suppose.
In far better news, this weekend I have also re-dyed my hair red (Yay, Herenna the Henna-Haired Harridan!), celebrated Khoi-Boi's birthday by buying him kitchen gadgets and eating evil cake, managed to get an arm-lock on a tricky Holborne recorder piece, made a date for lunch with wytchfynder tomorrow, fed ostrich pot pie and cauliflower cheese to jo&stv, and achieved a transcript of the dodgy chat-room sex scene from Closer by the simple expedient of typing "Closer film chat sex transcript" into Google (a proceeding fraught with potential pron site disaster, but in fact it turned up first link, go figure. I love the Internet. I want to show the clip for my lecture tomorrow, and it just occurred to me that the teeny little TV is going to make the actual words absolutely illegible to anyone not sitting in the front row, thus rendering the whole procedure curiously pointless. I shall console myself by inflicting random Spike clips on a hapless lecture theatre full of non-Buffy-sussed students, poor fools. *cue maniacal laughter*)
On the downside, today I have failed to achieve either the necessary VHS copy of Closer or the video machine configuration that will allow me to tape the clip from DVD. I have also wrenched my ankle, causing really weird knock-on knee muscle bruising, brooded excessively over an annoying phone call yesterday, had a small but perfectly formed tantrum at a failed manoeuvre* in the ongoing war against the bird crap on my car, and played a metric stonkload of Oblivion.
Chaos 1, Order O, I fear. Although it's also my mother's birthday, so there has to be some cosmic positive somewhere. Happy birthday, mother!
* God, that's a horrible word to spell. One more reason not to use pseudo-military metaphor, I suppose.