happy birthday, dead Lennon.
I busted my ankle again last evening, walking calmly along the sidewalk. That ankle had started hurting earlier in the day - severely, by the time I left work - and I revised my original evening plan to walk home from Fred Meyer, it being a nice evening and a pleasant walk, to just walking the 3 blocks from Powell to Francis. After a single block of walking, the ankle just folded sideways, pitching me forward, making me have to run a few steps to avoid falling face-first onto the pavement. ZING! 2 blocks to go. I grit my teeth and kept going, walking very mindfully, carefully slotting the bone into the joint with each step. Keeping up a litany of fuck fuck fuck fuck what the fucking hell fuck fuck ow fuck fuck what the fuck goddammit what happened what the fuck fuck fuck.
Got home; iced it. Ate food that was bad for me that I didn't like. Petted the cat. She didn't judge. Much.
Watched the 3rd and 4th episodes of Angel. They were GREAT. At that point in the series run, the dialogue can be crunchy and messed up - particularly the dialogue given to poor Cordelia - but the fight scenes are aces, and the monster concepts are creepy, unsettling, and wonderful. The psychic surgeon? That was fucking brilliant. I am officially a fan of Angel now. Thanks again, Hulu.
Then watched the new Supernatural with a certain Ms. Paris Hilton. She slaloms wildly back and forth between a shocking incompetence - I'd have reshot several of her takes until she could actually read her lines coherently - and an equally shocking horror-movie competence; she looks really good punching the shit out of Jensen Ackles. Some of the funniest lines I've ever heard on television were in that episode. No Castiel, though. Shame, that.
At 10 I gratefully went to bed; by 11 or so I could hear my neighbors having the same goddamn fight they always have on the front porch, which is DIRECTLY over my bedroom. I always feel I have to listen in on these fights because they always seem like they're going to become violent; god knows I want to punch that bitch in the fucking face if she squawks "NO" one more time, and that's nothing compared to the genitorture I'd like to inflict on the dude in the equation for making her keep squawking. Just give in, for Chrissake. But as far as I can tell, violence never breaks out; it's the exact same fight I've been overhearing for literally YEARS. It went on for a long time; I considered getting up and going up there to tell them to shut their cakeholes, but it would require getting up, getting dressed, putting on shoes, and being willing to risk them committing probably cocaine-fueled violence upon my own person. Finally one of them drove away. Then came back, went inside, and began to tunelessly bellow out the Beatles' "Girl". I should think "Run for your Life" would be more appropriate.
Sleep followed probably around 12:45am. I forgot to set my alarm clock, but anxiety always wakes me on a weekday no later than 7:30. And thank God, too.
Today my ankle feels like a bag of hot oatmeal. Cooked oatmeal. Strapped into a 10-eyelet Doc Marten boot. I've cried three or four times. I took my vitamins. I plan to buy a digital signal antenna on my way home, and if it works, call the cable company tomorrow and have them turn it off.
I dread the weekend.
Got home; iced it. Ate food that was bad for me that I didn't like. Petted the cat. She didn't judge. Much.
Watched the 3rd and 4th episodes of Angel. They were GREAT. At that point in the series run, the dialogue can be crunchy and messed up - particularly the dialogue given to poor Cordelia - but the fight scenes are aces, and the monster concepts are creepy, unsettling, and wonderful. The psychic surgeon? That was fucking brilliant. I am officially a fan of Angel now. Thanks again, Hulu.
Then watched the new Supernatural with a certain Ms. Paris Hilton. She slaloms wildly back and forth between a shocking incompetence - I'd have reshot several of her takes until she could actually read her lines coherently - and an equally shocking horror-movie competence; she looks really good punching the shit out of Jensen Ackles. Some of the funniest lines I've ever heard on television were in that episode. No Castiel, though. Shame, that.
At 10 I gratefully went to bed; by 11 or so I could hear my neighbors having the same goddamn fight they always have on the front porch, which is DIRECTLY over my bedroom. I always feel I have to listen in on these fights because they always seem like they're going to become violent; god knows I want to punch that bitch in the fucking face if she squawks "NO" one more time, and that's nothing compared to the genitorture I'd like to inflict on the dude in the equation for making her keep squawking. Just give in, for Chrissake. But as far as I can tell, violence never breaks out; it's the exact same fight I've been overhearing for literally YEARS. It went on for a long time; I considered getting up and going up there to tell them to shut their cakeholes, but it would require getting up, getting dressed, putting on shoes, and being willing to risk them committing probably cocaine-fueled violence upon my own person. Finally one of them drove away. Then came back, went inside, and began to tunelessly bellow out the Beatles' "Girl". I should think "Run for your Life" would be more appropriate.
Sleep followed probably around 12:45am. I forgot to set my alarm clock, but anxiety always wakes me on a weekday no later than 7:30. And thank God, too.
Today my ankle feels like a bag of hot oatmeal. Cooked oatmeal. Strapped into a 10-eyelet Doc Marten boot. I've cried three or four times. I took my vitamins. I plan to buy a digital signal antenna on my way home, and if it works, call the cable company tomorrow and have them turn it off.
I dread the weekend.