As long as there is Sin, Yuna will keep on dancing...
Thinking back to FFX... It's a wonder no one cleared their throat and ventured, "Uh, Honey? While we appreciate it and all.... um, you can stop dancing now. Really. Please stop dancing." It was bad enough that all their relatives had died without then having to endure the earnest flippity flipping of Yuna. Why can't they all be like Lulu? Actually the design wasn't bad. It was just those voices. Brrrr! I know it would have been different if it had been subtitled.
Currently I'm playing FFVI with an emulator on the Mac. It hails from 1994, when people had LOTS more patience for tromping around, leveling up, fighting unexpected beasties and earning cold hard imaginary cash. I partake only through the merciful lens of the Game Genie. I never go whole hog on the cheats, but I find that being able to level up more quickly, and thus not need lots of random encounters makes the game a whole lot more palatable. (Since I mainly play for the story. Silly me.) It's different if it's a pretty, pretty game like Dark Cloud 2. Mmmm. Give me eye candy, and I will waste a shameful, shameful number of hours doing whatever.
STARTLING NEWS FLASH: I may not actually HATE people after all. After some trial and error, I have discovered that if I have the proper amount of sleep and health, people---as a broad whole--- are sometimes merely slightly depressing. Taken individually, they can be interesting, and even enjoyable, unless they are the lady who called me a bitch the other day.
I have come to some conclusions, (while I'm in the habit of concluding things): As backward as it may seem, I like some dry red wines chilled. Because dry red wines make my face warm.
Also, I have concluded that if I never again get my hopes up about having a wonderful birthday, I will not be disappointed. It seems so selfish and childish to hope that one's birthday is nice. This year's was okay. Amid all the hubbub though, it just didn't feel like a birthday. I try to avoid saying anything about my it beforehand, because I'm paranoid people might think I'm not-so-subtly reminding them to go get me something. I have had some really wonderful birthdays-- ones where the gifts I got were not fancy or expensive, but instead showed that the people giving them really knew me and anticipated me. There's something that warms my heart about being anticipated. I also really like when people make things for gifts. I really like it, but I still am terrified to give homemade gifts because, my god, how vain do I have to be to think someone might want something I MADE? "Here. I MADE this. You'll love it."
People are right-- it IS the thought that counts. But probably not in the way they mean. Giving the perfect gift is one of the ways I express love. The thought that counts is the thought about the person I'm giving to-- who they are and what interests them. How I know them and what they mean in the context of my life. "The thought" is not giving a generic gift totally uninteresting to the person who receives it.
People remembered my birthday this year though. I didn't have an eighteenth birthday. Everyone forgot it. Even me. This year I forgot how old I was. People had asked, and I replied, (with a sigh that meant, "Only one year from 30...*sigh*" ) "I'm twenty-nine." Later someone, after some thought, pointed out that there was no way I could be 29. I had to be 28. After the initial pause and second guessing, I realized they were probably right. This very moment, I just used the calculator on my computer, and I believe they were right. Ahem. Slightly embarassing. Ok....Really embarassing.
Saturday, August 30, 2003
Saturday, August 16, 2003
It's Shark Week Again...
I realize that I'm not cut out to enjoy watching people have hunks of themselves bitten off by ocean dwelling nightmares. I have a hard time even watchnig the commercials. I see an underwater shot of the legs of the innocent swimmer/wader/person and the "Jaws" theme springs, unbidden, to mind. And then that shadow that evolves into a shark, and the initial "drive by" nudge before the "WHAM! Your leg is ground chuck!" moment. Not pleasant. I spent 5 years living a couple blocks from a beach where that happened. I'm not sure how much of it was urban legend and how much was fact, but the bulk of it scared me off the beach for good. I recall swimming when we first moved down south to Galveston, Texas from Michigan. Michigan.... where nothing in the wild is going to snatch at your legs from beneath your car or bite you and cause your arm to rot off. (very often) The swimming was awkward already, due to the numerous oil rigs offshore that spewed their tar-like substance into the already brown water, and onto the beach. I grew up thinking it was normal to bring baby oil to the beach to get all the tar off. On that particular day we were floundering happily in the shallows and ignoring the trash around us-- what looked like some paper bags, half sunk, some cans.... tar... We waved cheerily to a couple of guys who came down the beach carrying a picnic cooler between them and politely ignored the harpoon-like gigs with which they saluted back. Then they waded out next to us--- and began stabbing the "trash" in the water around us and coming up with enormous sting rays, whose spastic death throes made them all the more horrifying. That paper bag was no paper bag. After stowing their catch in the cooler, the guys waved and headed up the beach---leaving us huddled in the shelter of the sea-wall, as far back from the water as we could manage, clutching our towels. No shark week for me, as much as I want to be able to not have to peek through my fingers.
What a day. 2 noteworthy stories in one afternoon. I was talking to a friend of mine who lived in Florida who informed me that a young boy had had his arm bitten off by a shark. Even more noteworthy was the fact that his uncle waded in, grabbed the shark, hauled it shore, shot it dead, and recovered the arm in time for it t be sucessfully reattached at the hospital. Later, my dad mentioned that he'd seen a kid in the emergency room who was brought in because of a fainting fit brought on by laughing too hard. Laughing. Nice. Next time I go to the hospital, that's how I want it. No more back surgery for me. Just treatment for the after-effects of a really good joke.
Speaking of good jokes, arrrrr. I must sleep.
Land lubbers.
PS. We're offically a grown-ups. We're not only in the process of buying a house, but we also bought a washer and dryer today. NO MORE coin laundry. (once we get the house.) I'm adult. Condolences can be sent to the email address under "contact."
I realize that I'm not cut out to enjoy watching people have hunks of themselves bitten off by ocean dwelling nightmares. I have a hard time even watchnig the commercials. I see an underwater shot of the legs of the innocent swimmer/wader/person and the "Jaws" theme springs, unbidden, to mind. And then that shadow that evolves into a shark, and the initial "drive by" nudge before the "WHAM! Your leg is ground chuck!" moment. Not pleasant. I spent 5 years living a couple blocks from a beach where that happened. I'm not sure how much of it was urban legend and how much was fact, but the bulk of it scared me off the beach for good. I recall swimming when we first moved down south to Galveston, Texas from Michigan. Michigan.... where nothing in the wild is going to snatch at your legs from beneath your car or bite you and cause your arm to rot off. (very often) The swimming was awkward already, due to the numerous oil rigs offshore that spewed their tar-like substance into the already brown water, and onto the beach. I grew up thinking it was normal to bring baby oil to the beach to get all the tar off. On that particular day we were floundering happily in the shallows and ignoring the trash around us-- what looked like some paper bags, half sunk, some cans.... tar... We waved cheerily to a couple of guys who came down the beach carrying a picnic cooler between them and politely ignored the harpoon-like gigs with which they saluted back. Then they waded out next to us--- and began stabbing the "trash" in the water around us and coming up with enormous sting rays, whose spastic death throes made them all the more horrifying. That paper bag was no paper bag. After stowing their catch in the cooler, the guys waved and headed up the beach---leaving us huddled in the shelter of the sea-wall, as far back from the water as we could manage, clutching our towels. No shark week for me, as much as I want to be able to not have to peek through my fingers.
What a day. 2 noteworthy stories in one afternoon. I was talking to a friend of mine who lived in Florida who informed me that a young boy had had his arm bitten off by a shark. Even more noteworthy was the fact that his uncle waded in, grabbed the shark, hauled it shore, shot it dead, and recovered the arm in time for it t be sucessfully reattached at the hospital. Later, my dad mentioned that he'd seen a kid in the emergency room who was brought in because of a fainting fit brought on by laughing too hard. Laughing. Nice. Next time I go to the hospital, that's how I want it. No more back surgery for me. Just treatment for the after-effects of a really good joke.
Speaking of good jokes, arrrrr. I must sleep.
Land lubbers.
PS. We're offically a grown-ups. We're not only in the process of buying a house, but we also bought a washer and dryer today. NO MORE coin laundry. (once we get the house.) I'm adult. Condolences can be sent to the email address under "contact."
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