So deep that it hardly becomes known to me
So deep that its tears leave me a spectator of my own stupidity.” —from a letter from John Lennon to Stuart Sutcliffe in the early 1960s
Hello! :) The behind-the-scenes making-of documentary is on the DVD of The Pianist. It could be on YouTube, but they’ve started deleting things like that, so I’m not sure. I hope you can see it, though. It’s amazing!
I can never tell if my chinchilla is staring at me because he loves me
or because he’s wondering what I’d taste like with a side of raisins.
Book to Stage - “Les Miserables”.
As Marius was withdrawing, after concluding his inspection, he heard his name pronounced feebly in the darkness.
Okay, so I got in touch with the dog’s owner and I will be watching her. She’ll be happier outside of the vet kennel and back in her familiar home setting, and her owner will feel better knowing that a friend is looking after her. It felt rather nice to be referred to as a “friend”. I’ve only known him since March, really.
It will be a bit stressful to have to go to her place several times a day, especially when I’m taking care of my parents’ neighbors’ plants, but I can do it. I tell myself these things are too much, but they’re not. I won’t even have to give up going to the museum, cos it’ll be for pretty much all of July and I do not want to stop going to the Holocaust Museum. That place is one of my loves, as odd as that sounds.
These things are possible. My brain needs to stop thinking they’re not.
:P <— take that, Sara’s brain!
I have a hard time saying “no”. Especially if I know it’s going to inconvenience someone.
My neighbors (who own the dog I walk) are up in NYC much longer than they intended to be, because one of them was in some kind of major, frightening accident. I feel like a bitch for even thinking this stuff, but they want me to have their dog back home (instead of in the kennel at the vet), which would mean a pretty much full-time commitment to her, even though she’d be staying at her house, cos she’d need to be fed, played with, walked and just some company… Which is understandable, but I don’t drive, so if anything happened, I wouldn’t be able to rush her anywhere. I’m also moving from this neighborhood back into my parents’ house, so I won’t be close to where they/she live/s too much longer. They don’t know how long they’ll be in NYC, so I’d be committing to something that has no set end in sight and it’s a lot of stress for me, and I honestly do not know if I can handle dog + museum + moving + general other life things…
I feel bad telling them that I can’t. It’s not entirely impossible. It’s just that I feel like committing to it won’t end well, either cos the dog (who is elderly) will not be in 24/7 care like she is at the vet or cos I myself do not have the most stable of minds. I don’t want to spend all summer on edge. Does that make sense?
He asked me to email him and let him know if I think I can do it.
:/ What do you think I should do?
Though your heart is aching.
Even though it’s breaking.
When there are clouds in the sky, you’ll get by
If you smile through your fear and sorrow.
Smile and maybe tomorrow
You’ll see the sun come shining through for you.
Light up your face with gladness.
Hide every trace of sadness.
Although a tear may be ever so near
That’s the time you must keep on trying
What’s the use of crying?
You’ll find that life is still worthwhile
If you’ll just
I call everyone a dickbag, it’s my word. You’re welcome ;)
Can I use “douchehead”, then?
People who say that Adrien Brody, Wes Anderson, etc is a “pretentious douchebag”, “dick” or any other mean, groinal area phrase need to get lives. The fact that they’re insulting people who have NEVER acted anything other than funny, thoughtful and nice just shows how jealous they are.
Ugh. Pretentious dickbags, every one of them.
No, I didn’t post this just in order to say “dickbag”, but now I think that’s my new insult for insulters.
while I have this DVD. :D
I think Tumblr needs to see these expressions/actions of his.
I had a dream that I was married to Salvador Dali. I was Mrs. Sara Dali and I had a kick-ass cigarette holder. One of those really long ones. And it was peacock-colored. I also had a black sequin headband with a peacock feather in it, and a matching blue dress. And we were in a bar, laughing and smoking and drinking and wowing everyone with our awesome (in the literal sense) creativity and wit.
He kept kissing me on the neck and calling me “Sarrrrrrrrra”, and ordering me more to drink. And people kept coming up to me and saying things like, “Mrs. Dali, what do you think of this?” “Mrs. Dali, I hope you’ll consider writing on this.” “Mrs. Dali, did you inspire your husband’s newest work?”
I was very giddy and silly and everyone had flocked to us. It was awesome (in the modern sense). I would not have minded so much if that was my real life. :)
Did you see them going off to fight?
Children of the barricade who didn’t last the night.
Did you see them lying where they died?
Someone used to cradle them and kiss them when they cried.
Did you see them lying side by side?
Who will wake them?
No one ever will.
No one ever told them that a summer day can kill.
They were school boys, never held a gun,
Fighting for a new world that would rise up like the sun.
Where’s that new world now the fighting’s done?
Nothing ever will.
Every year, another brat, another mouth to fill.
Same old story, what’s the use of tears?
What’s the use of praying if there’s nobody who hears?
Midnight In Paris blew my mind. And it made me start questioning things, which is a) good and b) bad. But exciting. Yes. I feel like sitting and staring at the wall for a while.
You’re welcome for not spoiling it. You don’t want to be spoiled. But you do want to see it. Yes.
My apologies, Nerdfighteria. There is honestly nothing I can do about this.
That’s what I wanted to call it, but Penguin was all like, “You can’t put the word shit in the title of a Young Adult novel.” And I was like, “Well, of course not. But what about the word shitload?”
Ladies and gentlemen, my favorite author.
“I can’t pick up Sloane in your car. Mr. Rooney would never believe Mr. Peterson drives that piece of shit.”
“It’s not a piece of shit.”
“It is a piece of shit. Don’t worry about it. I don’t even have a piece of shit. I have to envy yours.”
“Oh, thanks.”” —Ferris Bueller and Cameron Frye
Because I flail a lot. And am flaily.