Come Sweet Death, One Last Caress

Fuckin' A... this is the movie I was born to review.



Here.

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Listening to: The Misfits - Die, Die My Darling

Live Every Week Like It's Shark Week

I present to you:



The glory of Deep Blue Sea.

Click.

Please to enjoy.

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Listening to: Imogen Heap - Getting Scared

In This House Of Suffering

Rebirth in Suburbia

It's been a week of torment, a week of tears and pain, trapped in this house of suffering. Last weekend was fine, but Sunday night I started feeling a pain in my throat. Monday morning it had turned from pain to agony. Every time I swallowed, tears were forced to my eyes. I was febrile and lay twisting my bed, praying that I wouldn't have to cough, for coughing elevated the pain to even more hellish levels.

Tuesday I knew I was going to be out for a long count. I went to work early, before others were in, so I could organize things and transfer them around without afflicting others. I went to the doctor, let him poke and prod and give me many "hmm's" as he looked in my mouth speculatively. Clutching a bottle of antibiotics, I made my way home, wincing and cringing at every accidental dry swallow.

I had long since lost the ability to speak.

Wednesday, the first sip of water that morning brought me to my knees and to tears. I was subsisting on a diet of mush - soup, applesauce, overcooked pasta. On the plus side, the Red Sox were winning.

Thursday and Friday saw minor improvements. I began to eat soft breads and an occasional soft taco. I still had to brace myself for each swallow, as it felt like I had broken glass lodged in my Adam's apple.

Friday was particularly difficult. It was, without question, the most beautiful day of the year. The dogs burst outside like kids on the last day of school, prancing and rolling and barking at birds, wrestling and chasing and napping in ignorant bliss. I watched from inside and only wanted to crawl back into bed.

Saturday... I felt better. I could swallow without wincing. And I thought to myself, "ENOUGH!" I made the decision as soon as I stood upright that I would work this damn plague out of my body. I would sweat it into submission. At 8:30 AM I rose, and with purpose I put on my work clothes - cargo shorts, beat up t-shirt, Red Sox hat, and I attacked my long-neglected yard. A yard filled with the detritus of a long winter and an abundant fall.

I raked, I shoveled. I dug up dead trees with a viciousness and force I did not expect. I hauled, I pulled and pushed and sweated, until seven hours later, I stood, hands on hips, surveying my handiwork. A clean, beautiful yard, grassy and with the flowers and buds bravely showing their faces. I choked on dirt and dust, and looked at myself. I was a wreck. I was literally dark brown with earth and grime and mud. My hands were ingrained with dirt. It was everywhere - at the corners of my eyes, between my teeth, in my pockets, in my socks. I stripped down to my boxers, gasping for air, hands shaking from my labors, and walked into the house, cranked the shower to "Scald" and stepped in.

I stood in the shower, letting the searing water tear into me, and it felt like a baptism. as brown water sluiced off of me, I felt the sickness finally release it's grasp, and eventually, I emerged, damp, with skin red and flushed, feeling like a new man.

This Deal Is Getting Worse All The Time

I was so excited when I was offered the Pajiba gig. I mean, reviewing movies! What’s not to love, right? Fortunately I’ve had the pleasure of enjoying, on some level, each movie I’ve reviewed to date. So when I received a random email from what we are assuming was a PR flak for the Lifetime Network recommending I check out a movie called The Memory Keeper’s Daughter, I cracked up. I mean, the Lifetime Network? Why the fuck would they contact me of all people? I laughingly forwarded it to Dustin Rowles, the publisher of Pajiba, thinking he'd find it funny. Instead, he responded, "You should review it."

Fuck.

Shortly there after, I was chatting with A Lover & A Fighter, a.k.a. Lover of All Things Lifetime and All Around Goofball, and I mentioned this to her. Her response? "Oh, that shit? I read that book. It was awful, awful, awful."

Fucking Hell.

After discovering that Darth Rowles was not, in fact, kidding, I resolved myself to watching it. I’d been dreading this past weekend for days. It was made worse by the fact that a) my wife was out of town, b) the Red Sox were playing the Yankees that weekend, and c) I was getting a cold. This is how fate found me sick*, home alone, on a Sunday night – watching the Lifetime Network instead of the Red Sox game. Yeah, this gig rocks. Anyway, click here.

*And in case anyone is wondering, it turns out I'm not just sick, I've got strep. I'm lovin' life right now, let me tell you.

Fighting the good fight

The people I've met though the internet, this strange new social system have overall been wonderful, kind, interesting and in some cases, even become good friends.

One of them is very sick.

Please send her some good wishes.

That is all.

You apes wanna live forever?!

It's a bit late, but it feels like a milestone to me. Whether or not it is remains up to debate. Anyway, Wednesday marked Day 100 since I quit smoking. I'm quite pleased. To commemorate this day, I am going in for phase two of my new tattoo in two weeks (phase one was this past Saturday, which was, of sorts, a late birthday present from Mrs. TK).

Yee-haw!

Carry on.


toothpastefordinner.com

RECOGNIZE!

That is all.

Today is a good day to die

A Chronology of the Last Twelve Hours of My Life


9:00 PM: Finish my latest Pajiba review, email it in for editing.

9:10 PM: Go upstairs to find Mrs. TK watching a reality show about the Pussycat Dolls.

9:11 PM: Die inside.

9:20 PM: Contemplate divorce.

9:30 PM: Hate world.

9:45 PM: Watch final minutes of Celtics game.

10:15 PM: Go to sleep.

-----------------------------------

3:15AM: Wake up. Stare at ceiling.

3:30 AM: Try to will myself back to sleep.

3:31 AM: Fail. Hate world some more.

3:45 AM: Begin thinking about work by accident.

3:46 AM: Begin stressing out.

3:47 AM: Stare at Mrs. TK in murderous envy.

3:48 AM: Mutter "fuck it" under breath, get up, grab cell phone and book and move into guest room to begin reading.

4:40 AM: Finish book. Contemplate punching self out for the second time this year.

5:10 AM: Asleep

6:10 AM: Wake up. Curse God, shake fist at sky.

6:10 AM - 7:15 AM: Feed animals, shower, dress, kiss wife, leave house.

7:15 AM: Pull into gas station. Remind self to get coffee, donut, juice, windshield wiper fluid.

7:20 AM: Get back into car. Stare at bird shit on windshield, realize I've forgotten the fucking wiper fluid, get out of car.

7:25 AM: Spill wiper fluid on shoes and pants. Scream "FUCK" in front of minivan full of children and scared parents.

7:35 AM: While crossing overpass, see traffic at dead stop on the highway, with plume of smoke in the northern distance. Contemplate pulling over to cry.

7:36 AM: Get onto highway, put car in park. Think of ways to destroy the world.

7:50 AM: Traffic begins moving.

8:05 AM: Pass burnt-out shell of exploded car. Feel nothing, because the morning has made me dead inside.

***Zombie driving mode***

8:30 AM: Flock of wild turkeys (A Flock? Gaggle? Gobble? Wobble?) runs onto I-93 highway, causing swerving, breaking, screeching, honking, and one sideswipe accident. Hit turkey with car for the second time this year. Think about driving into guard rail, beginning murder spree.

8:45 AM: Spill coffee on shirt.

8:47 AM: Repeat.

9:00 AM: Park car, stumble towards office.

9:15 AM: Write this down.


Any and all explanations are welcome.


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Listening to: Magnolia Electric Company - Give Something Else Away Every Day