Trying to watch Molly's Game ...

..  I'm trying, but it's not easy. For all the beauty and talent the actors have, it's haaaaaaard to chew through all the AaronSorkin-isms, the endless fast narration, dialogue and forced intellectual stuff that clashes directly with the act of her being incredibly timid, nice, scared little girl in court. She is as feisty as a razor blade when discussing psychoanalysis with her shrink dad at the age of 12, but when she finds out her phone texts were copied to her hard drives she goes on a five minute rant about how bad that is and oh, my...

.. Dunno. It's just ... if they talked a lot less, and a lot more convincingly, it would be great. But they only talk more and the script is Aaron Sorkin circle jerk. 

I've been trying to figure out, and I can't, what's bothering me about the actress's undertit. It's just weird. Did they use some weird glue or hairspray to make her boobs seem bubblier than tits naturally are? It's distracting. 

At the opening night she looks normal, so ... (And I know natural boobs that size don't stand up like that. She already looks perfect, I've no idea why they would try so hard to make her look fake...?)

Drej's expo in St.George Library

Preppin'...

The opening ...

 

 

MAN dad drove me today, that couldn't possibly have been his normal work tempo. Don't get me wrong - the day was perfection, but I barely managed to crawl home, I was so tired... We cleared out some of the fast-growing shrubbery and burnt two out of six small piles of vine branches from last season, joined by the energy workers who came to clear out the growth under power lines. Having me for the day, dad made sure I did a dozen things, up until the point I could hardly move anymore. My original work duty was to control the fire of the little pyres, since the terrain is fairly dry and it is a no-brainer in zero wind. However, if the wind suddenly starts to pick up, I have to keep the fire low and keep cleaning the zone around it. I love to do it, it's one of my favourite spring tasks. Dad trusts me, even though I doubt we've ever had a burning without me causing damage to either myself, our clothes, the dogs, the wires or work gear in general. I suppose that's half fun of it :D

Of course the brush we worked with was acacia, meaning that from head to toe I am perforated, regardless of outfit. I even sat on one of the 3cm thorns, for fuck'ssakes... And dad, who takes blood thinners, he comes out of these looking like someone dragged him around Troy. 

I still smell like smoke, after a nap and a shower (not in that order). The dog smells like smoke, sun and stolen cookies.

These trees may be dead
And the rivers run dry
But I stand on my hill
The king of all sky...

A D J E C T I V E S

(Unrelated)

Three new shows have landed, possibly worth watching - it's been a dry spell for a spell - Barry, Terror and Trust. I'll let you know if any of the them live up to the hype ...

(Less related)

Supposedly from now, the weather's gonna be getting warmer and , from time to time, less gray. 

Now to the jibbies :D

My mum complained - we had family lunch yesterday - that for every bunch of crime novels she orders on-line, they also send her a complimentary romance novel, for reasons unfathomable. I braved to check it out and discovered AN EYE OPENING new genre ...

I did NOT know books like this exist, I fuck you not. And I don't mean I didn't know people don't write them. Sure, I've written romance fan fiction with lotsa hookie when I was twelve - but this stuff gets ... sold in BILLIONS, is considered a superb Victorian novel, translated in 50+ languages and ... 

I am shot. Not shocked. Shot. It honestly feels like someone's shot me in the stomach. No, I'm not being dramatic. I exist in the world where Bill Bryson's latest is considered a bad book.

I could have sworn the author - a lady named Brenda Joyce is a fiction herself, a model posing as a bland, easily relatable Midwestern mother of four, while a studio does the actual writing - a number of ghost authors spewing horror onto pages, told to ... "Just when you think you cannot sink any lower ... start digging ..."  ... Now add an enthusiastic translator and ... This is what I want to show you.

Y'all know my war on adjectives. It's my vegan cause. Okay, look:

N.B., the count of D, is a passionate American with a secret past, who holds a vast estate near London. For his elegant, dark appearance and gloomy reputation he is known also as the Lord of Darkness. The rude Texan playboy is the opposite of a man fit to bring the woman out of an English beauty. 

J.B. is a naive English maiden. When one day she appears on the doorstep of a mighty stone mansion, she is shivering with fear - and excitement. Her naive nature is in sharp contrast to the passionate temperament of N.B. They are destined for a dark storm of passion ... but also a wild, unstoppable love. 

..


...
I

 ..
I got ... ng ... ng ..
I got chills.
The word passion is used three time. Naive is used twice. Three times they use double adjectives. And I fuck you not, this is rated AWESOME on Amazon.

I just don't know what to do. I at least hope there's some honest to Gawd fucking in here, because if I start reading and nobody KhalDrogos anyone, I'll borrow G's hatchet and commit the darkest of crimes.

Tomb-raiding and stuff..

MyMaja gave me another yoyo, having broken mine a little while back, and we've insisted on going to the movies since we haven't been in ages and the rules state it's not the quality of the movie that counts, it's the popcorn. G joined us. We watched the latest Tomb raider of which I can say - if you can appreciate how cute and committed to the role Mrs. Fassbender is, then it's watchable. The rest is really stupid. In fact, it's really dull, for an action-packed movie. That's some ghastly editing/directing right there. Matched only by some truly bad storytelling/writing. 

But she's super lovely.

Today I made a few rounds chasing the Pokies, a brand new one popped up, at some point the XP started coming three-fold. I even met one of my nemeses! Rockstar's been asking me about this. I know they've been lazy before I arrived - the gyms were manned by truly lame levels. Now it's game on. the almost-encounter was so nerdy: I neared a gym of my colour, when all of a sudden it turns red and two hefty pokies are suddenly inside. I notice I teeny tiny chubby girl in a parka the colour of raspberry ice-cream. I shout at her, as if "Come on!" and she puts her little head down, hurries away and vanishes out of sight. I see her later, doing my exact route, probably off to throw all my gyms off my colour, all my effort :D I have to make sure to educate her: I'm not really as scary as my legend would have it. Poor kids :D Haunted by a crazy old beagle-walking lady :D 

It's mother's day, so we purchased loads of plants and drove them to all our mothers. Still hardly any sign of spring. But the bees are doing great, all of them just fine - despite absurd drops, rises and again drops in temperature of late.

Tried joining a public trash-picking effort today, so as to help clean the town and park, but I didn't last long. Only five people showed up, so it was an endless drag, and I've seen all the human excrement, needles, condoms and filthy nose-wipes I care to see for a little while. My stomach was turning and I hid and fled after an hour. The notion of the community was decent, but if no-one shows up, it just doesn't work. There needs to be a sense of camaraderie to it, inspiring people to pick up litter. This way I just looked like a weird old lady with a trash bag and a dog chasing candy wrappers. 

To reward me for good intentions, the Universe sent me two out of two of my (not really :D ) dream threesome males to cross my path on the exact same bridge at the exact same time. The odds of that were impossible. One of them was waiting for the trash-picking event to begin, to report it, and I told him it's unlikely coming; the other came the other direction, taking his work children to play in the park. I was there, chasing Pokemonsies. Same bridge same time. Really, what were the odds? :D 

But in truth, my imagination already stretched as tight as a wire, what I wanted more than anything was to go home, wash my hand a couple more times (I stopped at the requirement home to wash them a few times already, then disinfect them and wash them again - despite we were given gloves)... and take a loooong shower. LONG. And I don't even like water. 

Then I crawled into bed with the sleeping General, told him about the failed trash-picking and the odds of the dream threesome and he would have probably killed me, but was too comfy and lazy so we just passed out and snored until lunch time. 

Still no sign of spring. I think I am getting depressed just a tiny whee little. I mean, I'm happy and naughty and perky and all, but... it feels more like wishful thinking than a spontaneous cheer that otherwise occurs when it's sunny and the world is full of colours.

30 km plus. Nowhere near my summer target, but not bad for the first long walk of the season ...

Ye, I dreamt I was angry. Chronically so. Because I could be home, but I was wasting my time in some foreign school. In the dream a school councillor suggested my private life is not much to fight for either, insinuating my lack of sex. (It's been 8 days since the infection. We tried fooling around but it feels unpleasant to go down that road.) Fuck her.

I dressed up nicely, layers, caps and shawls and all that jazz - it's still around zero unless the sun comes up, from time to time even bits of puffy icy rain falls - and kept to a level ground, so I don't sweat up, then descend and up again and down ... I wanted to see how far I can get before starting to feel uncomfortable. There's the hang (hung?) bridge first, then a close-by village, then the cleaning (river purification) station, then a large natural reserve pond (puddle). Two more bridges further on, before you get to a town that I usually got to halfway to my 50km destination. But today I wanted to mark the 40.000 steps count - 30 km or so, so the third bridge was the turning point. 

I know I am too heavy. Not for a moment was a tired or queasy, except for the horrific, almost unbearable hurting of my feet. However, I was trying out a new step. It's less stable (the ground was this thick creamy muddy ordeal, so you either walked very slowly or ran very ninja-like (not me).) and more using the front of the foot. In this shoe, the winter shoe, fingers have nowhere to spread, otherwise the burning sensation of the sole would have had more room to distribute. It uses more arms, this step, it's almost a bounce, like you're JUST about to start jogging. It's fast and the steps are longer, so instead of 20.000 steps back, I was missing 200. But for a while the soles burnt less agonisingly. 'Course then the ankles start to feel it. 

While Instagraming, it occurred to me that road, one I used to consider an almost mythological journey, is quite banal by now. There was no grass to speak of yet and no foliage, so finding a shrubbery to pee was annoying, because of course of the one hiker per hour two will pass by at that exact moment. Barky was lovely, too tired to really engage in any savage duels with other tiny dogs or swans.. It was a neat hike, listening to audio books and First Aid Kit sing their bizzare perky depressing songs. The river was lovely mint green variations, still parts icicles, parts raving spring whitewater.