Absolutely Nothing Of Note Happened This Weekend
Just more painting. I am getting awfully tired of writing about painting, so I'll just say this: painting for a weekend while chatting with your fiance: not so bad. Painting for a weekend alone in a basement: not so good. Also, one other thing--whenever I intend to say the word paint, I say tape, and whenever I intend to say tape, I say paint. No lie. What do you suppose that is all about? Am I going to die? One other other thing. Thank God for The Immaculate Collection. Normally I tend to devour music, discovering something new and then listening to it on permanent loop until I can't stand it anymore, but The Immaculate Collection has been in the permanent loop stage for like 3 years. Madonna, you ease my basement loneliness. I'm crazy for you.
I didn't have a chance to post Friday because I was too busy at work. Sweet! I wouldn't have time to post today either, except I have lunch duty which means an otherwise idle hour of sitting at the front desk. Some may not consider being busy particularly fantastic, but I would contest that they have never sat staring at a computer screen for 8 hours a day with no task to keep them sane. Maybe that's it, I'm losing my mind. They say the first thing to go is the ability to distinguish between tape and paint.
I'm still reading Haunted. Normally it doesn't take me quite so long to finish an average length book, but it is so mind-bendingly awful that I can't make it through more than 3 or 4 pages a night. It started off pretty decent. The premise is that several aspiring writers agree to go to a secluded location so they can concentrate on creating their masterpieces, only (get this) things start to go horribly awry. The finished "masterpieces" are peppered throughout the main text as a collection of short stories--unfortunately they turn out to be the only interesting part of the book. The main plot is so clearly a vehicle to get to each new short story, it's almost as if the author put no effort into it at all. The characters, after learning that they are trapped, start wrecking themselves in various ways, such as prying off fingernails or hacking away limbs, so that when they finally escape their ordeal will be horrible enough that they can gain fortune and fame from the movie rights. It would almost be plausible if there were some reason for their insane actions, some harrowing descent into madness, but there isn't. One page they are a normal group of people, the next they are destroying their food supplies and mutilating themselves in increasingly gruesome ways which conveniently lead into various short stories. What the hell, man? I get it. You're trying to make some weird commentary on the lengths to which people will go for fortune and fame. You could've just said it, instead of branding it into my face with a searing hot sledge hammer. The prudent thing to do would be to burn the book and launch the ashes into the sun where they would be broken down at the atomic level, but apparently when it comes to terrible books I'm a stubborn sumbitch.
I didn't have a chance to post Friday because I was too busy at work. Sweet! I wouldn't have time to post today either, except I have lunch duty which means an otherwise idle hour of sitting at the front desk. Some may not consider being busy particularly fantastic, but I would contest that they have never sat staring at a computer screen for 8 hours a day with no task to keep them sane. Maybe that's it, I'm losing my mind. They say the first thing to go is the ability to distinguish between tape and paint.
I'm still reading Haunted. Normally it doesn't take me quite so long to finish an average length book, but it is so mind-bendingly awful that I can't make it through more than 3 or 4 pages a night. It started off pretty decent. The premise is that several aspiring writers agree to go to a secluded location so they can concentrate on creating their masterpieces, only (get this) things start to go horribly awry. The finished "masterpieces" are peppered throughout the main text as a collection of short stories--unfortunately they turn out to be the only interesting part of the book. The main plot is so clearly a vehicle to get to each new short story, it's almost as if the author put no effort into it at all. The characters, after learning that they are trapped, start wrecking themselves in various ways, such as prying off fingernails or hacking away limbs, so that when they finally escape their ordeal will be horrible enough that they can gain fortune and fame from the movie rights. It would almost be plausible if there were some reason for their insane actions, some harrowing descent into madness, but there isn't. One page they are a normal group of people, the next they are destroying their food supplies and mutilating themselves in increasingly gruesome ways which conveniently lead into various short stories. What the hell, man? I get it. You're trying to make some weird commentary on the lengths to which people will go for fortune and fame. You could've just said it, instead of branding it into my face with a searing hot sledge hammer. The prudent thing to do would be to burn the book and launch the ashes into the sun where they would be broken down at the atomic level, but apparently when it comes to terrible books I'm a stubborn sumbitch.
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