Reasons For Keeping My Conversations With Myself To Myself

Last weekend's movies were on two ends of the ratings spectrum, but had the similar theme of alter egos who walk around and get the person imagining them to do things.

Say what you want about Kevin Costner, but I seem to end up liking his movies. Even Waterworld. Throw in William Hurt as the wacky "imaginary friend" who likes killin' and Mr. Brooks was actually a good movie. I don't why but I remember it as not going over with critics. I guess because humanity isn't supposed to go around...well, I don't want to give it away.

I'm not sure how we ended up seeing Nim's Island, because it's obviously a kid's movie, but Gerard Butler probably had something to do with it. When it was over, I liked it. Even though it was like Willie Scott goes looking for Castaways for Six Days and Seven Nights. I watch too many movies. Also, as in Monk, dickering over touching a doorknob is how you convey that you apparently need help. Never mind that it's everyone else who touches the doorknobs after not washing their hands that makes the doorknob a germ-ridden filthpool in the first place.

*ahem*

No, seriously, Nim's Island gives kids the wrong idea. I'm guessing that not everyone who receives an e-mail from a stranger saying, "Help, there's pus coming out of my leg," is going to end up with their dream life of isolation with a ready-made family featuring Gerard Butler. That's one rare success story. My luck I'd end up with something out of The Net. And I don't mean Jeremy Northam, either, because you know I'd probably just spend the last few minutes of my stolen life giggling maniacally at who was about to kill me if he was involved.

I'm pissed that hurricanes are still allowed to toss around entire cities, and even more pissed that what is meant to be the greatest freakin' country is having nineteen types of breakdowns. Maybe because that makes me feel lame when I note that my sink drain has been leaking for a while and the floor still feels strange and guilty that for us the weather merely turned grey and cool. That weather brings out a sort of non-zombie version of me who is able to do things, so I caulked my porch steps for the winter. There aren't that many steps, but it took two tubes of caulk. I expect the bugs living under the stairs were surprised that globs of some gooey crap were dripping from the sky. There's an image that will mess with my mind for a few minutes. I'll focus on the funny part, when I was testing one strip of old caulk and at first said it was fine, then pulled on a loose bit and the entire three-foot section came off in my hand. Hey, if I don't laugh at it I'd puke. And it's nearly impossible for me to puke the way my insides are positioned. I also scraped down the porch paint in the hopes that I'd be refreshing that soon, and fixed the lamp post timer after some dude wandered into the side yard and chatted on his phone for like, fifteen minutes, left a bottle of pee in front of the neighbor's house, and then slammed the gate and terrified my cats. Thanks, guy. I wish I could have scared the living hell out of you, too. Only I don't actually have any nifty imaginary friends who are capable of coming up with better idea than shining a light at you and poking you with a pointed stick. I mean, I could bash your head in with a kettle, but denting the kettle would make coffee time difficult, and I do not like my coffee time difficult.

Then I got a cold and all the nice weather to do outdoor things sort of passed me by. I was not so ill that I couldn't smack a mosquito, however, and the one I just killed has left legs all over my hand. Um. Excuse me, I need to have various horrified reactions.

Reasons For Keeping My Conversations With Myself To Myself