"You like horrible things! You're okay with Goatsex!"

I watch a lot of crap.

homoshiroi and I particularly, together, the magnitude of crappy movies that we watch is truly... magnitudinal.

Last night we watched the Rifftrax (aka "Special Download MST") version of the new "Wicker Man" with Don, which was written, acted, directed, and shot as if by brain-damaged seven year olds who've been sucking on their epi-pens and snorting glue.

This evening, joined by kleptoneko, we experienced "Alice, Sweet Alice," which promised that if we survived it, nothing would ever scare us again (which none of us watched, but we agreed that the menu screen was more scary than the entirety of the movie) and "Basket Case," which is a movie about a guy who keeps his deformed former siamese twin in a basket and they communicate through telepathy and kill the doctors who separated them like the one woman doctor who falls into a drawer of scalpels but then somehow gets impaled by five of them in the face.

And we have just finished watching "The Number 23" which has given me such a headache. It's like if you stapled together Memento, House of Leaves, and the Secret Window, and then set them on fire, and then while it was burning made it into some kind of glove-device and then punched people in the face with it while screaming "IT ALL ADDS UP TO TWENTY-THREE" and having lots of unnecessarily rough sex in the woods while being watched by an ugly dog. And then I dunno, shooting yourself in the head with a train full of box cutters. Or bees. A bee-gun. Bees with scalpels. They come out of a gun.

Did that make any fucking sense? NO BECAUSE NEITHER DID THIS MOVIE AND I CAN'T DRAW AND MY HEAD HURTS and I really like prime numbers, I'd even consider 23 one of my lucky numbers so GO TO HELL MOVIE.

And now there's some kind of toilet-using positive reinforcement Japanese whack-assery going on next to me and I hate myself for watching it but I hate my friends more. Also, Chenya has an icon of a smiling penis. I really, really hate her the most.

Sunday, bloody Sunday

Sundays at work are made of slowness and awwwwwg.

The first 3.5 hours went by pretty fast, but since Jack got here the overwhelming slowness of an August afternoon is wearing down my sanity like a scrub-brush made of sandpaper.

( To pass the time, I have tried: )

We need a goddamn jigsaw puzzle for this store.

And in perusing the prompts for a "fest" comm that I really should just back away from, I've found the prompt I failed to complete last month reinstated. Too bad I already posted my half-assed bullshit attempt. What's the deal where I love House so much that I can't think of a goddamn thing to write about?

I think I'm gonna go buy some coffee, if for no other reason than to get out of the store for a while and spend money.

Edit: I am home now and aaauuuugh, coffee make Amber die, why I forget that I must eat things with the flavor coffee or the pain comes, the paaain. If you need me later, I'll be being dead on some horizontal surface in my house.