Monday, May 30, 2011

Game Day #4

I'm not a crier. Not when people can see me anyway. I'm very much an emotion hider, which is sometimes good and sometimes comes back to bite me.

There are several movies that make me tear up, either because they're sad or cute. Like the end of LOTR when Frodo goes away on the boats. Or Toy Story 3 when I felt like my childhood was ending forever. But there are only a very select few that make me actually cry.

For today's picture game: Choose a movie that makes me actually cry every single time, no matter how often I watch it. We're talking salt plastered face and the clutching of stuffed animals.


So. Freaking. Sad. It doesn't help that through the entire movie I constantly wish I had friends who would invent magical lands in the woods with me. Double whammy.

Bonus Picture:

Also, this. I wish her face wasn't cut off in it, but it was the only one I could find with both of them. This is the scene where I start to writhe in agony. Because it's so freakin cute. He suddenly realizes exactly how much she really means to him, and stares at her as she jogs away down the road. For the last time.

*Cries more*

However, I would like to point out that this scene is also one of those that makes me REALLY over-the-top excited for the Hunger Games movie. Josh is a great actor, and except for his non-blondeness he's pretty much exactly how I pictured Peeta anyway.

If he looks at Katniss the way he looks at Leslie here, I'm gonna be melted. "Like a popsicle on the fourth of July."

Saturday, May 28, 2011

When your roommate has the consumption...

One time, forever ago, I watched an episode of Touched By An Angel in which a little girl, who doesn't realize how good she has it, runs away from home and joins a group of homeless teens in the city streets.

There are a lot of things that happened, mostly involving the angels stopping said teens from doing things they'd really regret later. But one of the things was saving this boy's life by convincing him to go to the doctor. He had been coughing incessantly, and it was obviously tuberculosis.

Ever since then, one of the few diseases I've been legitimately afraid of getting is TB. It doesn't help that it's airborne, contagious, and potentially fatal if left untreated. If I'm gonna die of a disease, I really don't want it to be one where I spend my last hours literally hacking my lungs to pieces.

I've been spending the last day or so sucking down as much vitamin C as I can. Why? Because my roommate has something. I dunno what it is, but I'm kind of a hypochondriac when it comes to ceaseless coughing. As I've explained.

I'm not a germophobe about almost anything else. Like at all. So thank you, Touched By An Angel. Thank you for filling my life with fear and paranoia.

To be fair, I actually liked most of the episodes. It was a good show. But that one definitely scarred me.

Also, Della Reese is awesome. One of those cool random actresses that I just enjoy.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

The Mysterious Adventure of Torquemada Smith: Part 2

“Where am I?” He muttered. As soon as his vision cleared, he looked around and found himself in a small motel room. He wasn’t tied up, which surprised him.

“Finally awake, are you?” The voice came from a shadowy corner. Mr. Smith had to squint just to see that anyone was there.
“Who are you, and why am I here in this... place.” He looked around again at his shabby surroundings.

“Who am I?” The figure repeated tartly. “Only the person who saved your life this morning. You ought to be thanking me, not sticking your nose up at my flat.”

“Saved me? From what, may I ask?” Mr. Smith was beginning to get agitated. It was the height of rudeness to talk to a person that way, especially to someone as elite as he was.

“And they told me you were smart. From the sniper. What else? Look, I only took on this mission ‘cause it was either that or a desk job. I’m not happy about this either.”

“Oh, do explain yourself!” He cried, beginning to lose his temper, which wasn’t a frequent occurrence.

“Cool it, mate. I was getting to that.”

Mr. Smith crossed his arms huffily, and took a deep breath in before muttering, “Fine. But please, do get on with it.”

“Please is better. Alright then. I’m an agent. Super secret, as they say. Can’t tell you my name.”

“You? An agent?!” he interrupted rather rudely. He could tell by the voice that it was a woman. He had never even dreamt of the social horrors that might occur in making a woman into an agent. She was obviously less than pleased at his response.

“Yes. An agent. And if you have too much of a problem with it, mate, I can just put you back in front of the sniper and let him take care of business.”

He had never been spoken to in such a way before, but she spoke in such a tone that he didn’t dare to argue.

“Please. Continue.” He squeaked.
“That’s better. Anyway, I was sent by the government to save you from getting assassinated. I only just made it. Couldn’t go in with your little lady friends there. That’s why I had to jump you. Last minute change of plans. Sorry ‘bout the glass, by the way. We’ll get that fixed.”

“Assassinated? Who on earth would assassinate me, and why?”

“You’re a rich man, yes?”



“Well, somewhat.” He admitted.

“Make your living by sweet talking the competitors during business deals?”

“To put it bluntly.” He replied, somewhat miffed at having his job described so basely.

“Any of those competitors that might be upset over one of your little deals recently?”

The lights suddenly turned on for him. “Brownsley.”

“Precisely.” The agent stated.

“But why would the government step in?”

“I don’t really know. It’s something to do with potential international incidents and some kind of swing vote in an important issue. I don’t ask the questions. I just do the job.”

“Why do you hide in the shadows like that?”

“I guess you could call it a feeble attempt to postpone the inevitable. But since you’ve already guessed at it, yeah, I’m not a man. Most people have a problem with it.” With that, she stepped into the light, still wearing her black mask and form fitting leather uniform. The only difference was that now she was also wearing a long coat, which covered most of the weapons she carried.

“I can see why.” He blurted, and immediately regretted it. For a man who made his living at knowing just what to say to people, he was failing miserably. She glared, but didn’t react much. He could see that she got the same reaction quite frequently.

“Yeah, yeah.” She grumbled.

“I’m dreadfully sorry if I’ve offended. But, I mean, well, couldn’t you at least wear a dress?”

“Oh yes, climbing a building in a dress would be incredibly effective.”

“You climbed...” he stuttered. He couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or horrified. A woman, climbing his twenty-seven story building, jumping through his window, kidnaping him, and wearing pants? He felt a little faint.

“I... I think I need to lie down.” He said weakly. “Where’s my room, please?”

“You’re in it. That’s your bed.”

“In the same room? With you? Isn’t that... uh...”

“What? Are you thinking of trying something?” She said dryly, “Because I highly recommend that you don’t. I could kill you six times just with what I’ve got in my left boot.”

“I... here’s great.” He conceded.

He got into the bed, feeling very dizzy. He had never in his life been so off balance in a verbal confrontation, and it disturbed him greatly.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

The Mysterious Adventure of Torquemada Smith: Part 1

“The Miss Jordans, here to see you, sir.”

“Yes, yes, thank you Hobbes. Show them in.”

Once the butler left, Mr. Smith rolled his eyes. If only the Miss Jordans knew what he really thought of them. But of course, they never would. He was far too adept with social cues and nuances. After all, that was part of his job, and he was the best in the business.
He sighed. That didn’t make it easy, though. Every young, single lady from Brantley to the Capitol had been crowding his door since they found out that he was in the market for a wife. And that’s really what it seemed to be. A market. None of them cared about his extremely ordinary face, or his slightly slurred S’s when he spoke loudly. It was all about the money.

He didn’t mind the interaction. He was rather a social butterfly. He enjoyed the company of other people, and spent large parts of his day in conversation with others. But he could read people like no one else, and if there was one thing he could not stand, it was insincerity: a quality with which he had been inundated since potential suitors had started flocking to him.

“Miss Jordan and Miss Jordan, sir.” Hobbes announced, and two ladies glided elegantly through the door.

“Miss Danica. Miss Laurene. You look more lovely than ever.” He said smoothly as he kissed each hand.
It was true. They were exceedingly beautiful. But they were also vacuous and shallow, and the time had come for him to let them down gently. He would never have such a vacant woman for his wife, though when he said as much to them, it was done so gracefully that they never knew that they had just been insulted.

The conversation went without a hitch, just as it always did, and Torquemada Smith sent another pair of giggling girls down to the limo thinking that they had been the best candidates of all. He watched the car from his penthouse window and sighed again.

“Is it worth it, Hobbes? I’m lonely, and I want nothing more than a companion with which to share my life, but I am tired of these games.”

“It will be, sir. Once you’ve found the right lady, she shall more than make up for everything else.”

“Hobbes, you are a wise man.” He replied gratefully.

Hobbes handed him a top hat and overcoat. He was due at a benefit in a half an hour, and prided himself in always looking his best. He turned to the mirror and adjusted his tie before placing the hat neatly on his head.

Seconds later, he found himself on the floor in the middle of shattered glass and tangled rope. Someone was on top of him, dressed all in black, including a leather balaclava.
“Stay down and don’t move!” The figure hissed.
“What on earth...” He began to protest, but his sentence was cut short by a sound that he recognized at once as belonging to a sniper bullet. The mirror that he had been facing shattered, and sent more glass raining down upon him. Before he could protest yet again, a cloth with a sickly sort of smell was pressed to his face, and everything went dark.

Unfulfilled Promises

Once upon a time I had one of my “contests” in which the commenters got to pick elements of a story, and I would write it for them.

Well, there only ended up being two comments, and they were by the same person. So I waited, and also re-linked the post to facebook, but after a while, still nothing. In the process of waiting, I got caught up in some other time consuming things. One of which was actually important, and not just the watching of entire seasons of cartoons on netflix. And so, the story never came to fruition.

I am here to announce that, even though only one person cared about my blog enough to actually play along with my silly games, I have finally remembered to start writing the story I promised. It will be forthcoming soon.

Granted, it will be a little harder, because not enough people commented to give me all the elements I wanted. But I’m creative and flexible. I don’t need you.

That’s a lie. I do. I admit that I crave blog stats like I crave chocolate. But I can scrape through the dry spells. I’m tough.

Anyway, The Mysterious Adventures of Torquemada Smith will soon grace my blog pages, and every one of you will wish that you had taken part in its awesomeness.

Okay, that’s probably not true either, but you can’t blame a person for wishful thinking.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Curse You!!!

Things I am currently shaking my fist at whilst yelling "Curse you Red Baron!":

-Summer toys. I don't have money for you! Why must you tantalize me so?

- Men who are hot AND can sing AND live near me but are still quite wrong for me. Why must you be so dang attractive anyway?

- Grocery stores. I am in constant disappointment at how easily 69 cent things can suddenly add up into a 90$ grocery purchase.

- Christopher Paolini. Don't even get me started.

- J. K. Rowling. Why must you be so dang awesome? Most of the time it's great, but sometimes it's really intimidating.

- Glee. Why must you make me be addicted to you?

- Chocolate. Why must you make me be addicted to you?

- Donuts. Why must you make me be addicted to you? (Are you sensing a trend here?)

- Showers. Why must you be so annoying AND so frequent? I wouldn't hate you so very much if the results lasted a little longer. It's a losing battle.

- Married and engaged friends. Why must you disappear from the face of the planet?

- 5$ movie racks. I don't have money for you! Stop tempting me!

- My dancing skills. Why must you suck?

- My wallet. Why must you be so empty?

That is all. Now here is a funny picture:

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Game Day #3

Today my random question is this:

If I could pick any Hollywood actress to look like, who would it be?

This is an interesting question, in part because there are so many dazzling people in hollywood. So I made a couple of provisos. No botox or surgery. She has to be real. She's also got to be someone with talent. Not a person who's only in Hollywood for her looks. Also, it's about the face, not the body. I don't need to pick a Raquel Welsh.

Even after narrowing it, there are still several people that I really admire, who are also gorgeous. Kate Winslet, for example. She's pretty and very talented. My favorite part for her is in Finding Neverland. She's just so good.

Audrey Hepburn was the epitome of classy. Some people are just born with it.

But there's one actress I've just always thought was top on the list for what I'd want if I could morph into looking like someone else.

Shes's talented. She has a gorgeous accent. She's spunky and funny in her roles. She's a brunette. And she's the kind of pretty that's stunning, but still real. You can see people like her walking around in every day life. I especially like her in the Mummy movies.

Rachel Weisz:

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Things I Can't Handle

Politics. Hate them. I only vote because it is my responsibility as a citizen to do so. But I wish I didn't have to.

What I specifically can't handle today:

Osama is dead, and therefore Obama is a hero.

Uh, excuse me? What, did Obama fly over there himself and pull the freakin trigger? Hello. If it were up to Obama, there wouldn't have been soldiers over there in the first place. And therefore Osama would still be alive. And not even in hiding.

But I digress.

Don't get me wrong. This isn't an anti-Obama thing. This is an anti-giving-the-president-credit-for-things-that-are-years-in-the-making thing. Osama Bin Laden is finally dead because of years of tracking him down, figuring out his plans, and sending in covert ops. Obama didn't have anything to do with that. He was sitting at home in his fancy white house raking in a 1.5 million dollar income. (That's a real stat. Last year it was 5 mil.)

I'd have said the same thing if it were Bush. If he had been the president at the time of the assassination, people wouldn't have giving him the credit that they gave Obama, but that's a different story. Bush would not have been the one to fly over in a chopper and man the sniper rifle that took the guy out. So what would his presidency have had to do with anything?


The same applies to Obama. Unless he was the one that pulled the trigger, I DON'T FREAKING CARE.


This just in: Apparently we can thank Chuck Norris, Jack Bauer, and the A-Team for the good news. Awesome. ;)