So I'm doing what everyone does now: Instead of keeping my remarks to myself and getting on being depressed and eating a whole gallon of ice cream, I'm torturing complete strangers with them. Hey, I just finally lost 10 pounds and can't afford to get depressed. Loss of back pain and fitting into all my clothes is about all I have going for me.
So instead of sleeping (because if I have one more dream about him, I'm going to actually wake up crying), I'm watching Grand Prix and wondering if the director had a stroke when he saw this incredibly serious and artistic movie with the madcap, Cannonball Run cover art it sported when I rented it. Of course, it's not artistic in a completely good way: Split screen! Three! Six! Nine! Too small to see! Sex in a brandy glass! A minute ago I thought it was finally over when the screen went dark. Intermission? Holy crap.
If E were watching with me, he'd have some good story about why James Garner is starring instead of Paul Newman or Steve McQueen, both, coincidentally, in the other long-ass movie I rented, The Towering Inferno, and co-starring everyone from O.J. Simpson to Fred Astaire (and that does include everyone. Seriously, I think I'M in this movie). I don't think it's taken a whole country this long to burn down. It's much like another long-ass movie E made me watch about the exact same thing happening on a cruise ship. Towering Inferno at Sea, I believe it was called.
I could be watching my favorite detectives battling murders, but that's ruined since it just reminds me of E passed out in a beautiful Dallas hotel room while I rang in the new year in the bathtub watching a CI marathon.
