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I've got to watch myself because I have a feeling I could get seriously caught up in the Fright Night re-make -- AKA: The Movie Whose Box Office Receipts Depend Solely On David Tennant Fangirls (Subheading: and for Very Good Reasons) -- and my credibility as a judicious, wizened movie-goer has already been compromised by the fact that I am more than a little in love with the original 1985 version. I'm not particularly impressed with Anton Yelchin as an actor, and Colin Farrell's best work (in my opinion) was in In Bruges and I really have no kink for seeing him swanning around in a wifebeater in the Nevada desert, trying to seduce Toni Collette. HOWEVER. This is one of those cinematic "perfect storms" which, through some odd confluence of casting and media hype, has made me believe that if I don't see it, I might just shrivel up and die. So, you know. I'll probably end up going.
Also, wasn't Apollo 18 supposed to be released this month? I'm really looking forward to that movie. (Here's the trailer, in case you missed it.)
SPACE, YOU SCARY.
My shoulder is back to normal, doing all of the things a shoulder is supposed to do. My dad and I were talking about it and I told him that I had just overexercised and he was like, "That's what happens when you get older," and there was a tense moment of silence on my end of the line because I was busy checking the Rascal™ Web site to see if I could get my mobility scooter in hot rod red. Seriously. I'm twenty-seven. Twenty-seven is not old. Twenty-seven does not even fit into the "older" category. In 1900, when the average life expectancy for a woman in the US was 48.3, sure, twenty-seven was old. Twilight territory. (Then again, in 1900 you were probably lucky to live long enough without contracting tetanus from rusty farm equipment or falling into a coal furnace.) Then again, there are times when I really feel my age. Like when I check my student roster and half my class turns out to be born after 1993. That's a pretty sobering moment. You were playing with Jurassic Park action figures while your students were still sucking amniotic fluid. Jeepers, that's rough.
Shoestring budget this month while I wait for my next paycheck. I'm learning to make choices about purchases based on what I actually need to get by, rather than what I want. I've stopped impulse buying, for the most part. That's been a real problem with me in the past. I think everyone should have the experience of living on their own, being in charge of their own finances, at some point in their life. It's at turns empowering and incredibly scary. You learn a lot about what you can actually live without. For instance: I just opened a Snickers bar I'd stashed in the freezer and accidentally dropped it in the trash can; pre-Terre Haute me might have left it there and gone for another one. Current!me was ready to launch a full-scale rescue mission to get that damn chocolate back.
It was delicious.
Also, wasn't Apollo 18 supposed to be released this month? I'm really looking forward to that movie. (Here's the trailer, in case you missed it.)
SPACE, YOU SCARY.
My shoulder is back to normal, doing all of the things a shoulder is supposed to do. My dad and I were talking about it and I told him that I had just overexercised and he was like, "That's what happens when you get older," and there was a tense moment of silence on my end of the line because I was busy checking the Rascal™ Web site to see if I could get my mobility scooter in hot rod red. Seriously. I'm twenty-seven. Twenty-seven is not old. Twenty-seven does not even fit into the "older" category. In 1900, when the average life expectancy for a woman in the US was 48.3, sure, twenty-seven was old. Twilight territory. (Then again, in 1900 you were probably lucky to live long enough without contracting tetanus from rusty farm equipment or falling into a coal furnace.) Then again, there are times when I really feel my age. Like when I check my student roster and half my class turns out to be born after 1993. That's a pretty sobering moment. You were playing with Jurassic Park action figures while your students were still sucking amniotic fluid. Jeepers, that's rough.
Shoestring budget this month while I wait for my next paycheck. I'm learning to make choices about purchases based on what I actually need to get by, rather than what I want. I've stopped impulse buying, for the most part. That's been a real problem with me in the past. I think everyone should have the experience of living on their own, being in charge of their own finances, at some point in their life. It's at turns empowering and incredibly scary. You learn a lot about what you can actually live without. For instance: I just opened a Snickers bar I'd stashed in the freezer and accidentally dropped it in the trash can; pre-Terre Haute me might have left it there and gone for another one. Current!me was ready to launch a full-scale rescue mission to get that damn chocolate back.
It was delicious.
