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Roomie and I are going to see Up tomorrow, and in preparation for the anticipated Pixar excellence, we watched Ratatouille. I love that movie to bits and pieces, and it's some of the most loving, lushest animation I've ever seen. I want to grab the fuckdrizzles responsible for the globular, inhuman monstrosity that is Winnie the Pooh in his "modern" incarnation and shove their faces against the television screen while screaming, "See? See? It is possible to create warm, vivid animation with a computer if you're not a lazy tool too busy surfing the Internet for underage kiddie fiddler porn to do your job." Pooh should not look like he's been assimilated by his own damn honey.
Other than that, things are quiet. The weather is, of course, being a miserable ass pickle. After weeks of bad weather, a light appeared at the end of the tunnel when they predicted that Friday would only have an isolated chance of thunderstorms. Oh, happy day! A movie, sunshine, and the opportunity to start my papers. Glorious. I'm tired of sitting in the middle of the living room with a shirt over my head, jumping at every crash. Thunderstorms are hell on the CP startle reflex, and each involuntary jump and accompanying adrenaline spike ratchets up the misery.
Then, this evening, the pundits declare that they were just kidding, so sorry, LOL, have some scatted and severe thunderstorms. But don't worry; Saturday will be gorgeous. You know, when you're chained to the computer in the chafing throes of responsibility.
It was at that point that I balled up my spastic, froggy fists, and screamed, "TIMMMM-MMMAY!"
You sniveling, smirking, primping, congenitally wrong, useless, maddening cocksnots!
Sometimes I feel like Charlie Brown running headlong at Lucy's proffered football.
Good grief.
Other than that, things are quiet. The weather is, of course, being a miserable ass pickle. After weeks of bad weather, a light appeared at the end of the tunnel when they predicted that Friday would only have an isolated chance of thunderstorms. Oh, happy day! A movie, sunshine, and the opportunity to start my papers. Glorious. I'm tired of sitting in the middle of the living room with a shirt over my head, jumping at every crash. Thunderstorms are hell on the CP startle reflex, and each involuntary jump and accompanying adrenaline spike ratchets up the misery.
Then, this evening, the pundits declare that they were just kidding, so sorry, LOL, have some scatted and severe thunderstorms. But don't worry; Saturday will be gorgeous. You know, when you're chained to the computer in the chafing throes of responsibility.
It was at that point that I balled up my spastic, froggy fists, and screamed, "TIMMMM-MMMAY!"
You sniveling, smirking, primping, congenitally wrong, useless, maddening cocksnots!
Sometimes I feel like Charlie Brown running headlong at Lucy's proffered football.
Good grief.
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