(no subject)

Today I am working on cleaning off the little octagonal end table that is covered with a red cross-stitch cloth to disguising its particle-board construction. It's pretty dusty, partly because my house has a lot of dust (two cats and a woodstove) but mostly because I am not much of a housekeeper. Clearing off the table was something of an archaeological adventure. I found... a badge from Philcon '96, a four-inch rusty nail, a kazoo, a jar of bubble mix, the manual for my digital camera (note to self: video clips), bank statements from 2001, the earrings an ex-boyfriend several years back bought me (I do not wear jewelry other than my grandmother's engagement ring), three sizes of crochet hook (note to self: doily project) and a big teetering stack of unlabled discs -- some of them loose, others in cases or paper envelopes.

I'd say that the unlabled discs happened before I broke down and bought a fucking Sharpie. I spent some quality time this morning putting each lable-free disc in the drive to see what the hell it had on it. Most of them were stuff I don't need/want anymore, so I made a pile to throw away... AND I THREW IT AWAY! Go me!

I recycled the cases, some of them for holding the PoT and HnG episodes I have finished burning to DVD. I also threw away my CD-Rs of those files because I don't need them anymore. (I made two sets of each, so that I'll have back up in the event of an emergency.) I could also probably benefit from some time spent sorting my .mp3 files and removing duplicates from the hard drive... but cleaning INSIDE the computer, no matter how absolutely delightful it is, is not as useful as cleaning OUTSIDE the computer.

It's been brought to my attention that Monday is that ghastly fucking holiday, the one without any decent food traditions to redeem it. (Box chocolates, unless they're quite pricey, don't fucking impress me... too many of them taste waxy and uninspired. It isn't the thought that counts... I don't eat thoughts. I eat chocolates.) I don't have a valentine. There isn't anyone out there who's going to romance my sorry ass. Nobody wants me... and I'm pretty okay with that.

All ya'll can take your fucking pairbonding holiday and shove it up your collective asses.

Bitter much? Like the very best chocolate.

(no subject)

Early productivity ground to a screeching halt as I watched Boondock Saints three times through to see things. As insidian promised, there were things to see. Extras... I about bust a gut. Yep, them's some damn slashy extras. A bag of ice? *snarf* I also used pause button to great effect, Il Duce apparently found previous employment in the welcoming arms of the IRA, not that this should come as a surprise. And yeah, where they tried to fix the wall after the cat incident. And I finally get why they call Rocco "Jaffar". It's his bellhop nametag. And I got the FBI guy drinking in a gay bar when he insults the bartender for being a fag. Damn. He's so pretty. It's a very entertaining film, it is.

insidian was right -- this film is a great deal more entertaining than it has any right to be.

And now I must fix dinner and watch Gangs of New York because I want there to be more violence in my day. So that we're all on the same page, I'm not even remotely watching for that DeCaprio fellow. Leonardo DiCaprio is an entirely uninteresting callow youth of extreme unfuckability and I have never found him hawt. The hottie in Gangs is Daniel Day-Lewis. He's a fucking delightful psychopath and I love the way his body moves. He's kind of anorexically elegant, if you know what I mean. If he were paler, he'd make a great goth. Plus, y'know, it's got aesthetic, lovingly-rendered violence. Hooray!