So I emerge from another day down in my
underground lair rec room. Today was LOTR day, and--damn, that is a lot of movie. I clocked it at about eleven or twelve hours, although that includes bathroom breaks and family interruptions. By the time I was halfway into ROTK, I started skipping a scene here and there: "Ew, spiders. Skip. Ew, more spiders. Skip. Yes, they're still dirty and thirsty, I get it. Skip skip skip."
My mother, meanwhile, has largely gotten a grip on herself, now that I've spent three days in a row holed up and glued to the DVD player. I mean, I had (another) talk with her about the whole nagging thing--part of the reason I kept getting so frustrated was because I'd say, "You know, I know where you're coming from but it's really not helping me, and besides, this is to important to me to blow it," and she'd say, "Yeah, I know," and then she'd still nag. So today I was like, "Look, I'm watching this today and that on Saturday and this here on Sunday, and then I should have seen everything once through, and I can pick one to start on." And I guess that made her feel like I had a plan or something, because she seems a lot calmer now. Also, she kept bringing me drinks. And then pizza. I could learn to live with this.
However, the cat bit the everliving shitfire out of my hand. She decided to watch Two Towers with me, and all of a sudden, while I was petting her on my knee, she grabbed my right hand--my writing hand--and just chowed on it. Seriously, a
fang tooth went in really, really deep, and I ended up in the bathroom stanching the blood with peroxide for about five minutes solid. (Blood running down my arm as I walk into the den: "Hey, does anyone have any Neosporin?") Of course, that's my cat for you--I've got two awful long scratch scars on my right wrist that look like I tried to off myself. Drunk. With a butter knife. Ain't pretty, folks.
Tomorrow: Braveheart and Titanic, if I don't die of pseudo-Celtic soundtrackitis first.