My iTunes library has a lot of strange things in it. Before I moved out of my parents' house, I decided that, perhaps, one day I'd NEED to have The Monkees' Greatest Hits, the soundtracks to Four Weddings and a Funeral and You've Got Mail, and the Canadian cast version of The Phantom of the Opera (here's an embarrassing confession... at least once a year I go through a phase where I listen to the Phantom soundtrack over and over again. Another inexplicable mystery concerning yours truly). I also snagged more useful things, like the greatest hits compilations of Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan and Gordon Lightfoot, and many of the Beatles' albums. So far few of these songs have shown up on my favourites list, but for some reason today I've got the master music list on shuffle. Which means that I'm suddenly going to recognize that I LOVE some of these tunes, and my favourites list will swell unnaturally. Perhaps not so much this Wallflowers song that's playing. But probably a great deal of the Cake I swiped from Emo without bothering to preview.
Yesterday, as I lazed about in my hungover haze, I ended up watching Smoke Signals, which I remember being vaguely interested in when it came out. I missed the very beginning, and I was doing my cross-stitch while watching, so it took me a little longer than usual to pick up on why they were going to Phoenix. Or I'm slow because of all the brain cells I killed. Anyway, Adam Beach looks ten kinds of ridiculous after his impromptu haircut, but niiice bone structure, buddy. The movie was pretty good, but not earth-shakingly amazing. Maybe I'm missing the chromosome that makes me appreciate male-bonding flicks.
Speaking of killing brain cells and my drunken antics on Saturday, I managed to give myself a good scrape on my foot through the sheer gracefulness that usually accompanies my drinking. Not, as one might assume, from when I fell right smack on my ass on the dance floor (I warned everyone that I always fall when I wear those heels, but just because I was expecting it doesn't make it less ridiculous). No, it was after I was back in my apartment, alone and barefoot. Rounding the corner to get to the bathroom, I caught my foot on the strap of the shoe abandoned forlornly by the door, managed to twist it around, and the spike heel gouged a few layers of skin right off my arch. I know, you're wildly impressed. It's only by paying careful attention to my limbs that I avoid being a slapstick punchline every day.
I still haven't made a decision on Mr. Dick-in-the-Box. I feel like the longer I leave it, the more likely it is that I'll just decline the overture in a fit of pique one day. Oh well. Que sera, sera.
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2 comments:
I find my best decisions are sometimes made in a fit of pique. I was going to say "in fits of pique," but really, what I like to do is save up a whole bunch of issues and then knock them all down at once when I finally get the opportunity to get really pissed off and decisive.
Sounds like solid planning to me. The only problem is that sometimes I'll make a bad decision, but be so riled up about it that I refuse to acknowledge my mistake. Or I will unfairly distribute blame on innocent passers-by.
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