Huh?

I feel like I should write something about this weekend, but I have the most intense case of writer's block in recent memory, so I'm just gonna babble on at the fingers and stop when I get tired, or carpal tunnel, whichever comes first.

I went out on Friday night for the first time in forever. It was fun, but I am insanely socially awkward, which meant things were awkward, and then I felt ridiculously sick just from the smell of the bar, which depressed me in ways that are difficult to explain. There is an overarching sense of elderly-ness that I seem to give off these days. What with my 12 hour sleeping stints and my delicate constitution. Oh what a world.

I saw Sin City also, and if I thought combining words to make sentences about Friday was hard, there's just no comparison that does this inability-to-write justice. In that I seriously cannot find words that explain my feelings about this movie. I need some other sort of medium, like finger paints or interpretive dance, to get across the exact message. And even then it would just be a lot of frantic gestures and streaks of red. I will say that it was completely exhausting to watch, and that I was alternatingly drawn forward and compelled back constantly throughout the movie. As someone wise said "If ever anything was hardcore, that was it."

Oh, and Clive Owen and Rosario Dawson are so ridiculously hot that their combined screen presence is almost enough to take out the entire theatre.

But yeah, I liked it enough.

So I've been reading a lot of books lately as my stint of sheer video gaming insanity seems to be slowly tapering off into something more healthy and less myopia-inducing and it has come to my attention that my patience with popular fiction has reached an all time low. In that, normally I will push through any given book to the end, provided there are printed words and they form at least a coherent sentence once per page, but now I get completely fed up with shoddy writing within 30 pages and will literally throw down a book that annoys me, and then won't pick it up again. Until lately the only book I have ever stopped reading due to my own personal taste was The Sound and the Fury, a book that I still truly believe is a huge joke perpetrated on literary minds everywhere. Now, I will totally give up on a book for, say, using the word 'impetus' twice in a two page span. I don't know if this means I've become a snob, or just really picky about how I spend my time. Probably neither, considering I still manage to finish a ton of books, the latest of which (All Tomorrow's Parties, William Gibson) I found to be a complete sucking void of a waste, once it was done. Isn't it nice how this long a rant can end up with no rational conclusion?

Yeah, so. Other stories can wait. The carpal tunnel is coming on, I can feel its cold, sweet embrace. Later.