So... If never wanting to see 8 1/2 again makes me a bad film student, I think I'm ok with that. I saw it. It's done. And I think that will be the end of our lives together, thank you. I'm sure I've now alienated myself from a large number of my peers, but I don't think they actually read this, so it's all good.
Classes have officially begun, and with less than two weeks until my first shoot, I also officially no longer have a life outside of school. Yay lifelessness.
Our 15ish minute short is about Kyle. Kyle is dead. He works in purgatory in the Murder department. This is, of course, the happiest job ever, since he spends pretty much every day sending all the pleasant people to hell.
Preparations are... going. We're planning to build out the entire set here on the AFI sound stage, which is definitely a huge undertaking, but I'm totally psyched to do it. I can like hammer hammers or something actually useful. Thankfully, we have a designer who's all kinds of cool, so he actually knows what must be done and whatnot. I get to be the one with the credit card. Who also says no. But I try not to say no unless I have to.
All in all, the creative muscles are being flexed, which is definitely nice. I'll have a full detailed post about the shoot once it's done. Assuming I can still move my fingers.
Which I hope I can. I like my fingers.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
[You are a fear prisoner. Yes, you are a product of fear.]
I love how watching movies makes me want to make my own, even if the movie in question has absolutely nothing to do with what I want to create. Case in point: just saw Jack Goes Boating.
That has nothing to do with what I want to write. And yet, watching it makes me want to write.
The first week here, we had this lecture series: Finding Your Story. The lecturer was Gill Dennis. He wrote Walk the Line, along with more stuff than I care to list here, but point is that he knows his shit. He told us all about what to pull into characters: greatest moments of fear, triumph, pride, shame. That sort of thing.
Which would all be much easier if I'd actually had any of the above. Really, my life has been pretty damn boring thus far by movie standards. You know, normally, I'm not really one to complain that I've had a nice life. Family, friends, schools... the low points have been few and far between. Which usually doesn't make for a very good story.
Or could it.
I really love the idea of this kid who has no real reason to be terrified of life, but can't help it. Who lets that fear take over to the point where he can't come back from it. And even though he knows none of it makes any sense, he still can't shake it.
A little Eternal Sunshine, a little Wristcutters, and a little me. I'm very attached to it already. Now to just do writing on the side while producing full-time...
That has nothing to do with what I want to write. And yet, watching it makes me want to write.
The first week here, we had this lecture series: Finding Your Story. The lecturer was Gill Dennis. He wrote Walk the Line, along with more stuff than I care to list here, but point is that he knows his shit. He told us all about what to pull into characters: greatest moments of fear, triumph, pride, shame. That sort of thing.
Which would all be much easier if I'd actually had any of the above. Really, my life has been pretty damn boring thus far by movie standards. You know, normally, I'm not really one to complain that I've had a nice life. Family, friends, schools... the low points have been few and far between. Which usually doesn't make for a very good story.
Or could it.
I really love the idea of this kid who has no real reason to be terrified of life, but can't help it. Who lets that fear take over to the point where he can't come back from it. And even though he knows none of it makes any sense, he still can't shake it.
A little Eternal Sunshine, a little Wristcutters, and a little me. I'm very attached to it already. Now to just do writing on the side while producing full-time...
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
[What's Next?]
So... I've been a bit of a bad blogger. To be fair, it was all for your own good. I told myself that if I didn't have anything amusing to say, you wouldn't read it, so I shouldn't say anything at all. You guys are just a very tough audience, you know. So, this is really your fault.
Jerk.
Anyways. It has officially begun: my life as a member of the fabulous film industry. I'm well on my way to being an upstanding member of society. Or at least, I'm now one who helps the economy by paying rent, so I suppose that's something.
The last week has been a blur of meeting people, getting back in the swing of being a student, and simultaneously feeling excited, nervous, overwhelmed, and scared. Somewhere between the realms of I'm Gonna Be A Kick Ass Studious Mother Fucker and Holy Shit, Why Am I in the Same Class As That Dude Who Has An Emmy. It's... odd, certainly. But I've never been one to turn away something because it's odd.
I will say, however, that for the first time ever, I'm living to work. With college and definitely with my job, I always felt like I was working to live. I was only there as long as I had to be there, and whenever I was kept late, that nagging little voice in the back of my mind did a routine of "It's time to go home. It was time to go home five minutes ago. Why aren't they acknowledging this fact? Maybe if I jump out that window, I'll get to go home sooner. What are my chances of splatting on the ground if I do jump out that window? I wonder if it even opens. I should've planned ahead and stuck something squishy outside the window, just in case it came to this." And then my mind wandered off to giant Twinkies, and I usually was able to keep myself distracted until I was finally set free.
But that isn't happening here. I get out of a 7:30 class and think "what's next?" Who can I talk to? What can I work on? For the moment, it's wonderful. I really do hope it's something that sticks, even in the worst days.
Five days into Boot Camp, I'm feeling pretty good. I adore my team, and we're working on a project that's a shoot off of an idea I've been playing with for years. We don't quite have the pitch down yet, but on Friday, we get to pitch it to the cinematographers, editors, and production designers.
Apparently, as a responsible producer, I get to be the one who gets up in front of everyone and coherently and convincingly explains to all of them why our project is worth their time.
That... should be interesting. But that's a story for another day.
Jerk.
Anyways. It has officially begun: my life as a member of the fabulous film industry. I'm well on my way to being an upstanding member of society. Or at least, I'm now one who helps the economy by paying rent, so I suppose that's something.
The last week has been a blur of meeting people, getting back in the swing of being a student, and simultaneously feeling excited, nervous, overwhelmed, and scared. Somewhere between the realms of I'm Gonna Be A Kick Ass Studious Mother Fucker and Holy Shit, Why Am I in the Same Class As That Dude Who Has An Emmy. It's... odd, certainly. But I've never been one to turn away something because it's odd.
I will say, however, that for the first time ever, I'm living to work. With college and definitely with my job, I always felt like I was working to live. I was only there as long as I had to be there, and whenever I was kept late, that nagging little voice in the back of my mind did a routine of "It's time to go home. It was time to go home five minutes ago. Why aren't they acknowledging this fact? Maybe if I jump out that window, I'll get to go home sooner. What are my chances of splatting on the ground if I do jump out that window? I wonder if it even opens. I should've planned ahead and stuck something squishy outside the window, just in case it came to this." And then my mind wandered off to giant Twinkies, and I usually was able to keep myself distracted until I was finally set free.
But that isn't happening here. I get out of a 7:30 class and think "what's next?" Who can I talk to? What can I work on? For the moment, it's wonderful. I really do hope it's something that sticks, even in the worst days.
Five days into Boot Camp, I'm feeling pretty good. I adore my team, and we're working on a project that's a shoot off of an idea I've been playing with for years. We don't quite have the pitch down yet, but on Friday, we get to pitch it to the cinematographers, editors, and production designers.
Apparently, as a responsible producer, I get to be the one who gets up in front of everyone and coherently and convincingly explains to all of them why our project is worth their time.
That... should be interesting. But that's a story for another day.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
[You Were Perfect, Bamaloo. Like a Ninja.]
I figured when I got here, I would probably see a few stars that I absolutely adore. It's Hollywood. I'm in film. That's just how it goes.
Of course, this one was one I never really expected.
For anyone unfamiliar with the pure awesome that is Ninja Warrior, it's a contest that's going on nearly thirty runs in Japan. The single hardest obstacle course ever constructed. So much so that Olympic athletes try and fail. Routinely. So much so that only two men in the 26 runs of the show have ever finished all four stages and achieved total victory.
One of those men is Makoto Nagano. He's also adorable and my total hero. And I shook his hand.
Much more than the obvious amusement of people completely wiping out on the course, I love the people who run it. The ones who dedicate their lives to training and perfecting their bodies so they can try and achieve total victory. The course takes an insane amount of speed and arm strength. It's like their own personal journey.
But the thing that really sets Ninja Warrior apart? They're all rooting for each other. They're not on the same team, but they act like they are. There's genuine happiness at each other's success and real heartbreak when they fail. It's so rare that you see that. Being able to be so truly empathetic? I think that's a pretty damn special thing.
Also, someday, I need to be a ninja. But that's another story.
Of course, this one was one I never really expected.
For anyone unfamiliar with the pure awesome that is Ninja Warrior, it's a contest that's going on nearly thirty runs in Japan. The single hardest obstacle course ever constructed. So much so that Olympic athletes try and fail. Routinely. So much so that only two men in the 26 runs of the show have ever finished all four stages and achieved total victory.
One of those men is Makoto Nagano. He's also adorable and my total hero. And I shook his hand.
Much more than the obvious amusement of people completely wiping out on the course, I love the people who run it. The ones who dedicate their lives to training and perfecting their bodies so they can try and achieve total victory. The course takes an insane amount of speed and arm strength. It's like their own personal journey.
But the thing that really sets Ninja Warrior apart? They're all rooting for each other. They're not on the same team, but they act like they are. There's genuine happiness at each other's success and real heartbreak when they fail. It's so rare that you see that. Being able to be so truly empathetic? I think that's a pretty damn special thing.
Also, someday, I need to be a ninja. But that's another story.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
[They Used to Call Me Anal Girl. I Was Very Neat and Organized.]
So that song about walking 500 miles? I officially deem anyone willing to do that crazy. Seriously, that doesn't prove your love, just your insanity. I might be biased at the moment, considering we drove through several 500 mile stretches there that had absolutely nothing in them, but I think my point still holds.
Just throwing that out there.
10 days, 2600 miles, and three time changes later, I'm just about settled in to my new apartment. All things considered, it all went pretty smoothly. Mostly. There was the slight issue of my property manager not looking at the box before giving it to the previous resident, and thus giving away my brand new, freshly delivered PS3 (which he adorably kept calling a 3SP), but the dude brought it back, so I'm willing to let that slide.
Anyhow, the place looks adorable. I'll have pictures up on Facebook soon. Ish.
However. There is one place now on my Hate Is A Strong Word, But I Really, Really, Really Don't Like You list.
IKEA. The Swedish bastards.
You can charm me all you want with your $1 cinnamon buns and your delicious hot dogs. Forcing me to walk through your entire store is still evil. And after having done it about six times in the last three days, I'll be very happy to never ever do it again. Especially since everyone in your store seems to be stoned or drinking a regular supply of the pretty chemicals under the sink, therefore can't operate a shopping cart, walk in a straight line, or understand that when I make the impatient noise with my shoe, it means move the hell out of my way.
Furthermore, you need to have a rating system on your boxes. I've taken the liberty of coming up with one for you.
1 - This thing is awesome. You take it out of a bag and voila. Instant fluffy pillow.
2 - Only common sense required to put together. Put shade on lamp. Turn lamp on. Success!
3 - The instructions are pictures! You like pictures.
4 - The pictures lie. They say this has 64 screws, but there are definitely only 57. And 12 of them won’t fit where they claim they will.
5 - This piece may induce slight cursing and/or mutterings.
6 - This piece will induce definite cursing and/or throwing things.
7 - Attempting to assemble this will cause you to set fire to the pretend wood in frustration.
8 - Attempting to assemble this will cause you to set fire to your house in frustration, just to make sure the damn thing burns.
9 - Even though it doesn't require you to use any power tools, trying to put this together will most likely end with you slicing off your hand. Possibly both hands.
10 - The world will actually explode if you even try to take this out of the box. There are three digit numbers in the instructions. Seriously, buying this will cause the end of the world. Do you really want to be responsible for that?
I'm forwarding a copy of this blog to the CEO of IKEA, so definitely look for this new system next time you're there.
Luckily, daddy was here to do his Guy thing and put everything together for us. Including the obscenely complicated entertainment center, which now looks awesome. As does the rest of the place.
Oh, though I finally have something good to say about Texas. Besides the song Ohio (Come Back to Texas), anyways. In Amarillo, there's a millionaire with apparently nothing better to do with his money than bury 10 beat up old Cadillacs in the desert so people could turn them into art. I use the word lightly, in the modern sort of sense, since I'm not really sure spray painting "Bite me" counts as art.
I, on the other hand, made my mark in a way everyone could enjoy.
Just throwing that out there.
10 days, 2600 miles, and three time changes later, I'm just about settled in to my new apartment. All things considered, it all went pretty smoothly. Mostly. There was the slight issue of my property manager not looking at the box before giving it to the previous resident, and thus giving away my brand new, freshly delivered PS3 (which he adorably kept calling a 3SP), but the dude brought it back, so I'm willing to let that slide.
Anyhow, the place looks adorable. I'll have pictures up on Facebook soon. Ish.
However. There is one place now on my Hate Is A Strong Word, But I Really, Really, Really Don't Like You list.
IKEA. The Swedish bastards.
You can charm me all you want with your $1 cinnamon buns and your delicious hot dogs. Forcing me to walk through your entire store is still evil. And after having done it about six times in the last three days, I'll be very happy to never ever do it again. Especially since everyone in your store seems to be stoned or drinking a regular supply of the pretty chemicals under the sink, therefore can't operate a shopping cart, walk in a straight line, or understand that when I make the impatient noise with my shoe, it means move the hell out of my way.
Furthermore, you need to have a rating system on your boxes. I've taken the liberty of coming up with one for you.
1 - This thing is awesome. You take it out of a bag and voila. Instant fluffy pillow.
2 - Only common sense required to put together. Put shade on lamp. Turn lamp on. Success!
3 - The instructions are pictures! You like pictures.
4 - The pictures lie. They say this has 64 screws, but there are definitely only 57. And 12 of them won’t fit where they claim they will.
5 - This piece may induce slight cursing and/or mutterings.
6 - This piece will induce definite cursing and/or throwing things.
7 - Attempting to assemble this will cause you to set fire to the pretend wood in frustration.
8 - Attempting to assemble this will cause you to set fire to your house in frustration, just to make sure the damn thing burns.
9 - Even though it doesn't require you to use any power tools, trying to put this together will most likely end with you slicing off your hand. Possibly both hands.
10 - The world will actually explode if you even try to take this out of the box. There are three digit numbers in the instructions. Seriously, buying this will cause the end of the world. Do you really want to be responsible for that?
I'm forwarding a copy of this blog to the CEO of IKEA, so definitely look for this new system next time you're there.
Luckily, daddy was here to do his Guy thing and put everything together for us. Including the obscenely complicated entertainment center, which now looks awesome. As does the rest of the place.
Oh, though I finally have something good to say about Texas. Besides the song Ohio (Come Back to Texas), anyways. In Amarillo, there's a millionaire with apparently nothing better to do with his money than bury 10 beat up old Cadillacs in the desert so people could turn them into art. I use the word lightly, in the modern sort of sense, since I'm not really sure spray painting "Bite me" counts as art.
I, on the other hand, made my mark in a way everyone could enjoy.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
[Well, My Daddy Taught Me How to Sing, and That’s Why This Voice Means Everything]
I’ve loved Elvis since I was six years old. I didn’t realize that’s who I was loving, but god, did I love him.
I almost wish I had some wonderful story about sitting in the car with my daddy while he played me Elvis. And that I was an enlightened enough child that I realized how great rockabilly was right from the start, so that while all my little friends were listening to Hanson, I was listening to Elvis and Johnny.
But of course, that’s a lie. The earliest thing I remember my daddy really introducing me to that I adored was The Proclaimers.
No, no. The one who introduced me to Elvis was Don Bluth with Rock-a-Doodle. You might not think loving an Elvis-like rooster really counts as a proper introduction to Elvis, but you'd be wrong. It was a fabulous introduction to rockabilly. Also, the kid totally turned into a kitty in that movie, and I really wanted to do that. It was a win-win sort of deal.
Seriously, just watch like 10 seconds and tell me that's not Elvis. Eventually, of course, I (technically) grew up and came to love Elvis for his actual awesomeness, not just that represented in a cartoon with farm animals.
The first thing we did when we got to Memphis was tour Graceland. I didn't exactly have high hopes for the place. I mostly had it pegged as a giant tourist trap. Which is pretty much what it was. Though it was cool to see Elvis' home. It just very definitely had that staged sort of feeling to it.
But today totally made up for it.
Today, we toured Sun Studios, very arguably the birthplace of rock and roll. Home of the Million Dollar Quartet: Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, and Johnny Cash. We heard the original recordings done by them and other pioneers of rock, including the very first song Elvis ever recorded. Cute story, actually. He just came in to use the studio because he wanted to record the song for his mother for her birthday. The secretary was just so charmed by him that she passed a copy of it along to Sam Phillips, the owner.
I'm not one who's usually genuinely awed, but today definitely hit me. I stood where Elvis stood and held the mic he sang into. Sun Studios is the only recording studio in the country that's a historic landmark, and everything about it is exactly as it was back then. Gotta say, I felt infinitely closer to the King there than I did standing in front of his grave at Graceland.
Without those boys doing what they did, none of the music I love would exist. So thank you, guys. Thank you very much.
I almost wish I had some wonderful story about sitting in the car with my daddy while he played me Elvis. And that I was an enlightened enough child that I realized how great rockabilly was right from the start, so that while all my little friends were listening to Hanson, I was listening to Elvis and Johnny.
But of course, that’s a lie. The earliest thing I remember my daddy really introducing me to that I adored was The Proclaimers.
No, no. The one who introduced me to Elvis was Don Bluth with Rock-a-Doodle. You might not think loving an Elvis-like rooster really counts as a proper introduction to Elvis, but you'd be wrong. It was a fabulous introduction to rockabilly. Also, the kid totally turned into a kitty in that movie, and I really wanted to do that. It was a win-win sort of deal.
Seriously, just watch like 10 seconds and tell me that's not Elvis. Eventually, of course, I (technically) grew up and came to love Elvis for his actual awesomeness, not just that represented in a cartoon with farm animals.
The first thing we did when we got to Memphis was tour Graceland. I didn't exactly have high hopes for the place. I mostly had it pegged as a giant tourist trap. Which is pretty much what it was. Though it was cool to see Elvis' home. It just very definitely had that staged sort of feeling to it.
But today totally made up for it.
Today, we toured Sun Studios, very arguably the birthplace of rock and roll. Home of the Million Dollar Quartet: Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, and Johnny Cash. We heard the original recordings done by them and other pioneers of rock, including the very first song Elvis ever recorded. Cute story, actually. He just came in to use the studio because he wanted to record the song for his mother for her birthday. The secretary was just so charmed by him that she passed a copy of it along to Sam Phillips, the owner.
I'm not one who's usually genuinely awed, but today definitely hit me. I stood where Elvis stood and held the mic he sang into. Sun Studios is the only recording studio in the country that's a historic landmark, and everything about it is exactly as it was back then. Gotta say, I felt infinitely closer to the King there than I did standing in front of his grave at Graceland.
Without those boys doing what they did, none of the music I love would exist. So thank you, guys. Thank you very much.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
[You're Not Your Fucking Khakis]
If only I'd listened to Tyler, this all could've been avoided.
I like to think that I take some of his lessons to heart. I've accepted that I'm not a beautiful or unique snowflake. I almost never fire a gun at my imaginary friend. And I'm a big fan of soap.
But the things I own most definitely own me. And I'm ok with that.
Packed up in my wonderful little Clementine right now are pretty much all my worldly goods. Things that I know I probably shouldn't be as attached to as I am, but who the hell am I kidding? If someone broke into my car tonight and took my Wii, there'd be tears. My DVD collection? Serious tears. Don't even make me say what would happen if someone took my sprinkle collection.
How does one get a sprinkle collection? Well, one attends a college that charges $8 for an all-you-can-eat cafeteria meal. One should also be picky beyond all reason, so that the go-to dinner is a grilled cheese sandwich with fries. Something good, but hardly worth eight freaking dollars. One must also have a shockingly rebellious soul. Enough so that the only logical way to make up for being overcharged for an artery-clogging meal is by stealing a cup of rainbow sprinkles every day. These sprinkles should then be stored in something awesome, like a giant plastic Coca-Cola bottle that's supposed to be used as a bank.
Most people aren't that rebellious. Really. I'm a damn rare breed.
Anyway, today's mission was pretty simple: get to Memphis. Birthplace of rock & roll, home of Elvis, attractor of mildly creepy tourists. What's not to love? Memphis is about a six hour hike (read: high-speed drive) from Knoxville, so we set out early. [Sidenote: There is way more Tennessee than I think there really needs to be. Like, seriously, we could've cut this damn thing in half, and I would've been just fine with it.] Somewhere along one of the two-lane sections of Tennessee, there's a faithful little orange sign. Nothing too big or flashy, but it does the trick: Road Work Ahead - Lane Closed 1500 Ft.
Apparently, in Tennessee, this means something a little closer to this: ZOMBIE FEEDING GROUND AHEAD. STOP NOW IF YOU WANT TO LIVE. SERIOUSLY. But that's too long, so they shorten it to the road work bit.
Accordingly, all the trucks slammed on their brakes and swerved into our lane. Being the good driver that he is, Dad managed to stop before we ran into I ♥ Sloppy Kisses. This bumper sticker had a picture of a possibly retarded dog on it, but I think it's a lot funnier without the dog.
The few seconds that followed stretched into those weird slow-motion deals. Not the cool Matrix bullet-dodging or Inception car-slowly-falling-off-a-bridge (HOW AWESOME WAS THAT, by the way?) sort, but more the fuck-I'm-gonna-die kind. But for once, my paranoid brain didn't picture my body splatted across the highway. A nice change, by the way, but it was replaced by an equally stressful panic attack.
If that guy rear-ends us, he's going to crush my trunk. If he crushes my trunk... HE'LL BREAK MY SPRINKLE BANK.
This was then followed by visions of multi-colored carnage all over the interstate.
I'm aware that it doesn't make a lot of sense to be more concerned about my sprinkles than my life. But it took me like two years to get all those sprinkles. And I somehow doubt AFI has a place I can steal them from. I'm not sure if you ever noticed, but sprinkles are expensive. And I'm about to be a broke grad student. I can't afford to replace my sprinkles.
That is the kind of dedication it takes to become a Sprinkle Ninja. You thought you had what it takes? Think again, my friend. Think again.
Oh, I also saw Elvis' grave today. Which probably would've been a lot sadder if it weren't covered in those damn rubber bands in odd shapes. That just made it sad for a whole different reason.
I like to think that I take some of his lessons to heart. I've accepted that I'm not a beautiful or unique snowflake. I almost never fire a gun at my imaginary friend. And I'm a big fan of soap.
But the things I own most definitely own me. And I'm ok with that.
Packed up in my wonderful little Clementine right now are pretty much all my worldly goods. Things that I know I probably shouldn't be as attached to as I am, but who the hell am I kidding? If someone broke into my car tonight and took my Wii, there'd be tears. My DVD collection? Serious tears. Don't even make me say what would happen if someone took my sprinkle collection.
How does one get a sprinkle collection? Well, one attends a college that charges $8 for an all-you-can-eat cafeteria meal. One should also be picky beyond all reason, so that the go-to dinner is a grilled cheese sandwich with fries. Something good, but hardly worth eight freaking dollars. One must also have a shockingly rebellious soul. Enough so that the only logical way to make up for being overcharged for an artery-clogging meal is by stealing a cup of rainbow sprinkles every day. These sprinkles should then be stored in something awesome, like a giant plastic Coca-Cola bottle that's supposed to be used as a bank.
Most people aren't that rebellious. Really. I'm a damn rare breed.
Anyway, today's mission was pretty simple: get to Memphis. Birthplace of rock & roll, home of Elvis, attractor of mildly creepy tourists. What's not to love? Memphis is about a six hour hike (read: high-speed drive) from Knoxville, so we set out early. [Sidenote: There is way more Tennessee than I think there really needs to be. Like, seriously, we could've cut this damn thing in half, and I would've been just fine with it.] Somewhere along one of the two-lane sections of Tennessee, there's a faithful little orange sign. Nothing too big or flashy, but it does the trick: Road Work Ahead - Lane Closed 1500 Ft.
Apparently, in Tennessee, this means something a little closer to this: ZOMBIE FEEDING GROUND AHEAD. STOP NOW IF YOU WANT TO LIVE. SERIOUSLY. But that's too long, so they shorten it to the road work bit.
Accordingly, all the trucks slammed on their brakes and swerved into our lane. Being the good driver that he is, Dad managed to stop before we ran into I ♥ Sloppy Kisses. This bumper sticker had a picture of a possibly retarded dog on it, but I think it's a lot funnier without the dog.
The few seconds that followed stretched into those weird slow-motion deals. Not the cool Matrix bullet-dodging or Inception car-slowly-falling-off-a-bridge (HOW AWESOME WAS THAT, by the way?) sort, but more the fuck-I'm-gonna-die kind. But for once, my paranoid brain didn't picture my body splatted across the highway. A nice change, by the way, but it was replaced by an equally stressful panic attack.
If that guy rear-ends us, he's going to crush my trunk. If he crushes my trunk... HE'LL BREAK MY SPRINKLE BANK.
This was then followed by visions of multi-colored carnage all over the interstate.
I'm aware that it doesn't make a lot of sense to be more concerned about my sprinkles than my life. But it took me like two years to get all those sprinkles. And I somehow doubt AFI has a place I can steal them from. I'm not sure if you ever noticed, but sprinkles are expensive. And I'm about to be a broke grad student. I can't afford to replace my sprinkles.
That is the kind of dedication it takes to become a Sprinkle Ninja. You thought you had what it takes? Think again, my friend. Think again.
Oh, I also saw Elvis' grave today. Which probably would've been a lot sadder if it weren't covered in those damn rubber bands in odd shapes. That just made it sad for a whole different reason.
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