On the day of Johnny Carson's passing I am mentally frazzled.
"Frah-zzled."
Maybe it's some form of acute ADD. I've been having a hard time concentrating lately. This blog is already on the verge of deletion, I tell you. I've got a stack of work waiting to be done and I can't seem to get myself to do it. The bosses turned their stuff in Sunday P.M. so I've got a crapload of stuff I've got to take care of before deadline on Wednesday morning. There's this looming sense of urgency that's about to find its place above my head soon enough.
I just spent my entire evening cleaning up my safety deposit box of a drawer and watching "Unfaithful," imitating to my mom and sister in my best foreign accent the stereotypical French dude every soccer mom supposedly should fall for...
"Do you want to come up ze my apartment, no? Shall we, ehhhh, eat cwa-saunts and drink ze Chateau Le Blanc, no? Come, mah cherie, and I ve shall ze grow ze olde and fat and make lots of oui oui Pierres and read lots and lots of ze Ahmerican poetry, no? Oui oui? I vill be ze, eh ah, vhat we call ze, eh-stereotype, no?"
Touche.
Of course it had its nicer points. The younger brother from Malcolm in the Middle plays a kid who wets his bed and receives unconditional "no matter what" love. Richard Gere acts like a top-notch Bill Gates who clinically cleans up his second-degree murder. The open ending was a nice touch, I mean, after a movie filled with adultery and murder thriller cliches. I mean, come on, it's a well-established movie rule that if you hide the body in the trunk of your car, someone HAS to rear-end you, and your trunk has to pop up so you have to struggle to close it. And if you have to move a body (wrapped in, of all things, a rug), it's also a rule that you NEVER ask for another person's help when you move it, and you have to rudely refuse any passerby who lends you a hand.
I have no free time at all, and this is what I'm spending it on.
"Frah-zzled."
Maybe it's some form of acute ADD. I've been having a hard time concentrating lately. This blog is already on the verge of deletion, I tell you. I've got a stack of work waiting to be done and I can't seem to get myself to do it. The bosses turned their stuff in Sunday P.M. so I've got a crapload of stuff I've got to take care of before deadline on Wednesday morning. There's this looming sense of urgency that's about to find its place above my head soon enough.
I just spent my entire evening cleaning up my safety deposit box of a drawer and watching "Unfaithful," imitating to my mom and sister in my best foreign accent the stereotypical French dude every soccer mom supposedly should fall for...
"Do you want to come up ze my apartment, no? Shall we, ehhhh, eat cwa-saunts and drink ze Chateau Le Blanc, no? Come, mah cherie, and I ve shall ze grow ze olde and fat and make lots of oui oui Pierres and read lots and lots of ze Ahmerican poetry, no? Oui oui? I vill be ze, eh ah, vhat we call ze, eh-stereotype, no?"
Touche.
Of course it had its nicer points. The younger brother from Malcolm in the Middle plays a kid who wets his bed and receives unconditional "no matter what" love. Richard Gere acts like a top-notch Bill Gates who clinically cleans up his second-degree murder. The open ending was a nice touch, I mean, after a movie filled with adultery and murder thriller cliches. I mean, come on, it's a well-established movie rule that if you hide the body in the trunk of your car, someone HAS to rear-end you, and your trunk has to pop up so you have to struggle to close it. And if you have to move a body (wrapped in, of all things, a rug), it's also a rule that you NEVER ask for another person's help when you move it, and you have to rudely refuse any passerby who lends you a hand.
I have no free time at all, and this is what I'm spending it on.