of mice and men

I feel like I'm spitting in John Steinbeck's face by using that title. Let alone the poet who originally coined that phrase - Frost? I don't know.

So I had plans for more "parody week" entries. Quite a number of them, in fact. I even drew out little indexed cards to scan in to use as the last one. But it was not to be, for I am lazy and have never finished a project in my life.

I saw Run Fatboy Run last night. On my computer, of course. The result was that I decided to get up this morning and go for a run. I got up at 11:59am and ate a large breakfast before watching nine or more hours of DVDs.

For those of you who haven't seen Season Three of Gilmore Girls (Senior Year) and who might want to, here by spoilers. I suggest you leave now. Go on. Go read limericks or something. The rest of this entry isn't for you.

I saw the episode where Rory and Paris appear on CSPAN at the Chilton bicentenary. Where Paris has a breakdown and yells at the camera. I dream of doing that. I would love to do that. Just to break down and go crazy and live just for a moment revealing precisely what I think. Release the raw emotion. That, I think, would be the ultimate catharsis. Somehow I don't hold out much hope.