Monday, June 13, 2011

One Of A Million

I really like reading other blogs. Some of my favourites are, of course, Miss Moss, who is not only one of the best internet curators but is also articulate and original, and Jezebel and Feministe, which are always extremely funny, informative, and make me want to do things. I like blogs that show and tell me about things I wouldn't know about otherwise, and how other people see things.

What I don't like on other blogs are photo after photo of someone's outfit and where they bought everything from, frame after frame of a movie someone watched recently, and too-pretty pictures of food. (This isn't to say I don't spend a good deal of time on blogs that do just this. But I also watch ads on TV just to yell at them.) I like pictures of food. But why would I want to see your stupid bagel your flatmate made? I like other people's clothes. But why would I give a fuck what you wore to meet your friend Tweety for hamburgers? And if the movie was good, tell me. If I want to see what it looked like, I'll fucking watch it. And please stop using the cutesy language. It makes me want to hurt you.

However, people seem to love these blogs, and suckers like myself keep checking them, so it must be what what people want. So here we go:
Last time Vincent and I were at Charity Barn (even better than it sounds; the first time we went there the first thing I saw on entry was a sweat-stained wheelchair) he found an Esquire cookbook from 1956 [there should be a photo of it open to the title page here, taken on a white floor, but our floor is not white and I can't find my camera]. (We bought it for 30-ish cents - books at Charity Barn are three for a dollar. It's like the shop the March sisters went to [sentence ended with preposition on purpose.]) It has recipes with names like Fried Chicken A La Louis Armstrong and Prince Edward Island Fish Chowder. Vincent made Breast Of Chicken Brazilian, and it was delicious.


Poor lighting, lack of skill, and impatience to eat it makes it look a little bit like I vomited on my plate. Actually it looked as pretty as it was pleasing to the palate.

Another day I hung out with my friends and I wore jeans, a jumper, and some boots. Then I put a duvet over the top. I looked like this.



[There should be more pictures including one of me jumping but jumping would have required getting up and I wasn't about to do that. When I woke up and wanted to go inside, Vincent carried me.]

Lastly, last night we watched Paris, Texas. It was bad (as in not good).


This is a bit where she asks if she should take off her top and begins to do so. I was so bored I found myself really disappointed when she didn't. That is how bad the film is. I can see boobs anytime (that's not to say other people's aren't interesting). This particular scene was so painful I wanted to smack my head on the windowsill. Since Gommorah, I have had very little faith in awards given at Cannes. Had I known about this film, I might have been aware of Cannes's limitations when I was one. As it is, I'll never get those three plus two and a bit (both of which felt like five) hours of my life back.

Cute cute giggle giggle.

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