While standing on an icy mountain plateau and waiting for inspiration to strike, gentle reader, I realized that Mondays simply do not encourage substantive conversation. You know, like the kind we usually have.
I’ll say this, though. You’ve got to see Vol. 2. I haven’t experienced much of his work short of touching the Reservoir Dogs DVD I recently bought, so you’d be dead on if you labeled me a Tarantino virgin. I’m not here to weigh the virtues of this movie against all his other ones, however, nor am I going to offer a full-fledged review. You’ve got the professionals for stuff like that.
All I can say is, I’m going back to see the movie again this week, exorbitant ticket prices be damned. Sweet fancy Moses, what a great movie.
Halfway between getting my feet in order and having my trachea crushed, it suddenly occurred to me this new pasttime would involve far more pain than, say, collecting stamps. That’s fine, though, because this isn’t a hobby in the usual sense: adding “ground fighting” to my skill set was never a priority for me, but riding the Prosecution Train hasn’t done much to calm my nerves either.
“In nine out of ten cases,” the victim services officer told me, “there’s no retaliation. It’s pretty rare.”
While this may be true, stats almost always come in pairs, and damned if I’m going to meet the ugly doppelganger of this stat unprepared. Will I learn to run on walls and dodge bullets, gentle reader? Please, spare me. One thing’s for sure, though. The next time some cockjockey asks to “borrow” my cellphone, I’ll lend him some broken ribs instead.
I could not speak with you yesterday, gentle reader, because a woman far wilier and infinitely fouler than Muse detained me. I’ve been tossing my cookies and paying homage to the Porcelain Goddess for the past few days, and it’s an experience I don’t want to repeat soon.
Before I get too chipper, let me tell you I’ve a great little anecdote involving oregano and an alleyway, but I’ll save that for another day. For now, allow me to stew in this nasty stomach virus. Do you want to know what else is nasty? I went to Steak n’ Shake for a company outing today and beheld an utterly horrifying new word: fudgify or, should you wish to see it in noun form, fudgification. The scatological opportunities are nearly endless. I’m just glad they didn’t fudgify–or urinatify–into my vanilla shake.