Crank

Do you know what's bogus? I signed up for Netflix, because I have realized that there are a lot of movies I've never seen, and I don't have a Blockbuster card, and the library never has what I want anyway--and, oh, this story actually has two bogus parts. Okay, part number one: they allegedly shipped my first two movies on Friday, and I didn't get them until yesterday. They said I should have gotten them on Saturday--or Monday, by the latest. Boo. Part number two: part of the Netflix subscription involves being able to watch some of their movies online, which would be uberperfect for those days when work is slow. Like...today. I didn't have high expectations of this service going in, but I have discovered that you can't even try to play Netflix movies on a Mac because of Apple's digital distribution software or some shit. Booooooo.

Anyway, I watched Stardust last night, finally, and I loved Claire Danes in it, but that was about it. Many a liberty was taken with Neil Gaiman's original story, so that now I have to read it again, because I was having a hard time remembering how things really happened. But it was a fun movie. Yes. It was.

It was fuh-reezing in here this morning, and Charles had kept me up all night whining and clawing at my feet, so I was miserable for the better half of the day. Then I went home at lunch to eat some mashed potatoes and take a ten-minute nap, and now I feel much better. I'm still not awake, but I feel better. I need a longer nap and a Brandi Carlile concert stat. Depressingly, only one of those will be available to me in three hours. Listening to the Burlington bootleg is not good enough anymore. Withdrawal is excruciating.

I am still bummed. That squirrel on a stapler is not making me feel better. Neither is listening to or staring at Brandi Carlile. Somebody fix me! Bah! Oh, wait, I have the cure: Tina. Fey. Later, internet.