I have a headache from hell right now, so I’m going to keep this post short. Funny anecdote. Insightful opinion. Conclusion. Little tilde thing and my name.
Oh, and also, because this is me we’re talking about, dancing llamas. The end.
So it turns out the reason why we have the abstract concept of one is because without one we wouldn’t have any punchbowls and I think that’s beautiful.
Stephen Hawking needs to write a book about it called “that one time Shelby was really tired and rambled on for thirty minutes about the number one to his girlfriend on the way back from a show”. We’ll be millionaires.
People often ask, “Coffee or tea?” and it makes me wonder: “Why not coffee and tea?” After all, you don’t have to try to assassinate the prime minister of Portugal just to prove you like Spain, and you don’t have to strangle a waxwork statue of Abraham Lincoln just because you’re not a fan of stovepipe hats. I may have learned this the hard way last weekend.
The most important thing to remember is no one can hate you more than you can hate yourself.
Sometimes you pick up a book and become so entranced in its world that it’s heard to put it down. This happened to me with Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane. I started it around eight Tuesday morning and within twenty four hours was done. I devoured it. In retrospect, I should have spent more time on absorption; I am filled with the sense that I missed some of the book’s more subtle points, and there were quite a few. I tried to slow down several times and digest, but then I started reading again because I had to know what happened next. Gaiman’s story is less book than drug; once it gets into your system you are pulled ever downward into a fantastical dreamworld where nothing makes sense, but everything follows its own delightful dream logic.
Go read it.
There are a lot of things that suck. One is American “cheese”. Another is getting fired because your boss is an doody-head who decides you’re falsifying your work report, as a friend can attest. You may also find that being gormandized by a dragon is not a pleasant experience. Of course, none of those really stacks up to running on six hours of sleep the day before opening night of a show–especially when it’s a huge show like Oliver!, and also the first show you’ve ever lit and you have no idea what you’re doing. Luckily, I have marvelous friends that help me when I don’t know what I’m doing, and an awesome director who goes out of his way to order fog machine fluid so it will be here by opening night. It turns out there is some good in the world.
P.S. This post is short because I don’t know how many of my brain cells are actually operating right now, although I doubt many.
In this modern world we live in, I think we can all agree that American “cheese” is the most disgusting thing ever.
Firstly, it isn’t even cheese. It’s a horrible monstrosity of nature that causes angels to weep and sad teenagers to play the guitar. The only resemblances between it and cheese are merely passing–you might mistake it from twenty feet away, but when you get close the mirage fails. Too late, though, you find; you have already been pulled into its trap. You are being smothered in an avalanche of cheese-like goo. You barely have time to make peace with your personal god when the goop enters into your mouth and smothers you. At last, you feel a strange sense of peace. The warmth of the cheese-like product–once destructive–becomes inviting, beckoning you to close your eyes. You do so, never to open them again.