Via Fountain Pen

I have just finished watching Bright Star, a biopic of Keats that involves more romance and costuming than any film ought to. The star-crossed love story ends in death (from tuberculosis, of course) and the movie is directed by Jane Campion. All of those things means that I’ve come to one conclusion:

This is why we’re all fucked.

Don’t get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoyed the movie. It’s just that I also think that movies like this should come with a warning label or require some kind of license to rent. These things, these stories of love that is expressed in flowery poerty and doesn’t even stop after death, are dangerous.

It would be lovely if, when your man has to travel to Italy, he would devote much of his time to writing you ornate poems about how much he misses you. It would be lovely if they were hand-delivered and sealed with bright red wax bearing his initials. But we don’t do that here in the 21st century. Here, we have email. We have Facebook. Those things are instant gratification, but they are not particularly romantic. Ladies, if you get any bright ideas about hand-writing poems in fountain pen, proceed with caution. This tends to scare the hell out of the 21st century male. You might as well go find some moors to wander. In the rain.

Even if your man were to write you ornate poems from Italy, half of you would think it he was just up to something. Like, “he’s just trying to get in my pants” or “I wonder what he did that’s about to piss me off.” Guys, forgive us. Years of being 21st century women have taught us that guys who do things like this probably ARE up to something.

It’s like guys can’t win.
Ladies can’t win either.
Ask us about the virgin/whore problem sometime.

Actually, maybe you can win a little. At the end of the day, it’s not about the wax-sealed poems. It’s not about flowery language that could only be managed by a master of Romantic poetry. It’s about us women just wishing we knew how you felt about us. If you go to Italy, we just want to know that you’re thinking of us. We’re all screwed because modern technology has gotten us used to knowing exactly where everybody is 24 hours a day. One tiny hole is someone’s Foursquare timeline, and our stupid girl brains start wondering. It’s silly. It’s insane. It’s the 21st century. Five years ago, we didn’t have this kind of access to each other, and now it’s become commonplace, and sometimes expected.

There’s a part of me that really enjoys having every status update from everyone I know sent to my phone. There’s also a part of me that wants to run screaming from that, move to the country, and communicate only via fountain pen.

Donation Info / Sloganizer

Before I get to the rest of the post, I’m going to re-post the Markey Cancer Center donation info because some of you asked me to. If you make a donation in the name of Bruce Mauk (with an acknowledgement to me), they’ll send me some notification so I can thank you. Thus, they will probably ask you for my address. If you need it (and you probably do, since I moved not too long ago), just email, message, or whatever me and I’ll tell ya what it is. (If you’re not sure if you have the most recent address for me, it should end in 37207.) Anywho, here’s the link: markeycancerfoundation.org

Continuing on with your regularly scheduled blog post, I thought I’d re-introduce you to the wonders of sloganizer.net. You may remember this. You put in a name, and the site generates slogans? I found myself playing around with this, and the results amused me enough that I had to share.

“Bigger. Better. (evil)amy.”
(not so. do not want biggerness. kthxbai.)

“(evil)amy is better than chocolate”
(DUH. NOTHING is better than chocolate, though I’ve heard good things about sex.)

“You better get inside (evil)amy.”
(Whoa! Sexual harassment! Maybe I should use this as a pickup line? Just sidle up next to a dude in a bar and whisper it? OK, that would probably be false advertising.)

“The future sounds like (evil)amy.”
(The future is going to be BITCHY!)

“(evil)amy is rolling, the others are stoned.”
(Sloganizer has clearly met my friends, and knows about my status of Eternal Designated Driver)

“(evil)amy values”
(If everyone shared my values, we’d have no dogs, children, or SUVs. Hey, maybe we’re onto something.)

“(evil)amy loves you.”
(What am I? Jesus? Get your own damn love.)

“Anyone can handle (evil)amy.”
(NO. Not literally OR figuratively. You are not allowed to grab my ass. Well, MOST of you aren’t allowed to grab my ass.)

Most accurate:
“hmmm….(evil)amy.”
(Suggests that the customer/buyer won’t know wtf is going on, which is just about right.)

Friday LOL: Jonas Brothers Breakup

I promised myself I would try and post something every day. It’s like working out: if you skip a day, you skip 2 days, and 2 days becomes a week. No am feeling so wordy, so I’m bumping Friday LOL to today. Besides, I’m guessing that y’all got enough words out of me at 3am.

Fave quote from this: “How are we supposed to write a rock song if we don’t know what a girl’s pussy smells like?”

Biting My Butt, Part 693

In looking into my recent bloggy quietude (and by “looking into,” I mean “obsessively wondering if this is a sign of depression”), I realized for the 100th time that one reason why I’m not blogging as much is because I keep the same blog in 3 different places: WordPress, Livejournal, MySpace. Frankly, it is a giant pain in my ass to have to log into three different places. Hell, it’s a pain in the ass just to log into MySpace, which becomes irritatingly more like Facebook (aka “sensory overload”) every day. Wait, where was I?

Oh yeah. Crossposting. The short answer: there’s no magical 3-click way to do it automatically, and there’s damn sure no way to ensure that your words and pix don’t end up like fuckery that’s been run through a blender. If I have to go LOOK at the posts to check them anyway, I might as well just copy/paste like a caveman. So…ook, ook, baby. I’m here in my cheetah print loincloth, cavemanning it up. Shall we continue on with a weekend wrap-up?

Thursday:
Being unable to think of somewhere we hadn’t eaten yet, Jen and I broke down and went to Reb Lobster. I’d never eaten there, but people who love greasy, fried things seem to enjoy it. When a fat person tells you a restaurant is good, you should probably listen. I got Walt’s Favorite Fried Shrimp (Walt, I’m assuming, is a large man) and it was delicious. Jen & I ran into an acquaintance from goth night, proving yet again that all goth people in this town really DO know each other…or at least know each others’ faces. Who among us can’t recognize, say, Girl Who Wears Her Bra As A Shirt or Guy Who Always Has His Shirt Open? Or, everyone’s favorite, Guy Who Wears Fangs And Isn’t Being Ironic?  

Friday:
I came to the slow, painful realization that perhaps cutting one’s antidepressants in half was not a particularly wise choice. “Why am I not being productive? Why am I watching too much tv and eating too much sugar? Could it be that I’m depressed?” So, I overcame my fear of putting my precious Paxil prescription in the mail and mail-ordered my drugs this time. Two thumbs up, as my drugs came to me having saved me 25 bucks. Why am I mentioning all this? Cause I didn’t really do anything Friday. Yeah.

Caturday:
Once again feeling industrious and monetarily able (finally got paid for a freelance gig), I headed to the Expo “expensive as ass, but fun for lookin'” Home Design store and dropped some 500 bucks on the sweet crystal doorknobs that I had picked out 2 months before I even bought my house. Spending that kind of money makes me nauseous, but so does the thought of accidentally trapping myself in the office. Again.

I later headed out to Dave & Buster’s for Carrie’s birthday shindig (read: playing Dance Dance Revolution in public) and had a lovely time right up until somebody shot a gun in Dave & Buster’s and the whole place had to be evacuated. Police showed up bearing the most bad-ass guns I’ve seen in real life, loaded with the most bad-ass shotgun ammo I’ve seen in real life. As it turns out, the person who did the shooting did so because he’d always wanted to do it just to see what it would be like. He shot at the ceiling. If that isn’t the most Rivergate thing I’ve witnessed in a long time, I don’t know what is. (Though going to Reb Lobster and looking at the prices BEFORE being seated, which Jen and I did, is also pretty Rivergate.) I hope he enjoyed shooting that ceilign, as I doubt that shooting a gun in public is considered a misdemeanor. Not to mention the financial fun when Dave & Buster’s inevitably sues him for all the money that walked out the door during the evacuation. I think some guy even left WITH a beer mug…which, come to think of it, is also VERY Rivergate.

Sunday:
Got 2 of the doorknobs installed (it was surprisingly easy), wrote a couple reviews and then headed out to 80’s goth night where some dude complimented me on the 80s-ness of my outfit….which was not really supposed to be “theme dressing.” Oh well. Not everybody appreciates a shiny silver poof skirt. More for me, bitches!