Friday, the 13th. Just read Max Landis' "Chronicle" -- what a fabulous screenplay. Loved it. Also reread Scream screenplay. That movie definitely took you on a ride. I remember waiting on line to watch it. The whole theater participated in shouting at the scream. Now that's a good movie experience. When the audience participates. It usually works best with late-night showings, mostly of the horror or thriller variety.

Yesterday I left a frozen dinner on the table instead of taking it with me on the drive. It was a Trader Joe's frozen dinner. Saag Paneer with Basmati Rice. I was so disappointed that it would go to waste that as soon as I came home I popped it in the freezer again. Soon, I will have you, I thought. Because I often talk to my food. "I eat you now!" As I spear a cucumber from my salad, or "Take that, fool!" as I bite into some chicken thigh.

Nah, just kidding. I don't talk to myself when eating. Too busy eating.

Today I heated up the microwave dinner as my work lunch. The picture on the cover just looked so good, though I was saddened to see the cheese cubes weren't as advertised, definitely not as big. Still, for $2.00 and change, I think it was a relatively satisfying frozen lunch. And so far, the cheese isn't upsetting my stomach.

I'm at work now, in the music room, typing away because our Sound Engineer isn't here. I need time to unwind. To decompress. Excited for this weekend.

I'm going to get other microwave dinners. I'm sick of those lame sandwiches I make. Bread, cheese, tofurkey or the real thing. Lots of mayo. Pepper. Although that bread -- yum. I could live off bread and pasta. I'd be a bowling ball sized gal, but at least I'd have me some comfort food.

Boys from the gaming club, walking down the street, probably to lunch. Cars zooming by the floor to ceiling high windows. Yesterday night I polished my boots. I wear them all the time, but don't take care of them. I spent painstaking minutes swirling a ripped t-shirt cloth over the leather. I don't have a lot of nice things. Need to take care of them. Need to. My own.

This weekend, I'm going to go hiking. I signed up for bootcamp. Four weekend sessions. That'll start next weekend, no, the weekend after (we're flying away next weekend, going up north for some beer festival). I've lost about five pounds, but need to gain muscle. Yesterday I couldn't open a big gallon water lid. It was on there tight! Still. Pathetic.

You know. I don't really like beer. I wish I did. I wish I was cool enough to like beer. I think girls and guys look incredibly sexy when they hold beer bottles (or is it just that I'm jealous they actually look like they're enjoying the contents of that bottle?). I want to be one of them. But alas, beer makes me burp. It makes my insides knot up. My stomach hurts after, sometimes hours after. And I feel bloated. Like I'm gonna burst.

The only beer I can really stomach is Guinness. Liquid bread as M says. But honestly, I don't like that comparison. I'd rather have a big chunk of bread. I think bread gives me a rush. A drug-induced free fall of yummy, delicious carb-enhanced goodness.

Spicy food. Wish I liked that too. I can handle medium spicy. What a punk. That's me.

The cats are playing in the Cat Hotel across the street. One of these days I'm going to break 'em all free. I see them lounging by the barred windows, their paws by the metal frame. Paw, paw.

Speaking of pawpaw. How about Miranda July's new movie, The Future.

Yes, please.