Thursday, May 19, 2005
James dropped by unexpectedly to invite me to a midnight showing of Star Wars, which I of course accepted. James' friend, Mike, bought three tickets (another girl, Christina, had the third), operating on the assumption that James would sneak in under the wing of a friend who works at the theater (however, for this or that reason, James ended up having to pay). It was good company.
The last three films, I have felt, are in no way comparable to the original three. The bogus acting made me nauseous, and the stories were not conveyed well, cinematically. They were entertaining enough at the theater, but wholly disappointing, as with everything else I encounter. Oh, well.
Moment of hilarity: Padme, telling Anakin about her pregnancy, asks, "What are we going to do?" Mike responds, "Baby, we're going to the clinic." James threw popcorn, the rest of which he later spilled on my foot and the floor twenty minutes before the movie ended.
My right eye leaked the entire time, because I had a tremendous headache from this cold. When James dropped me off at the dorm, I did look like a Sith. I downed a substantial amount of NyQuil and lay on my bed with my eyes shut, waiting for the drugs to take effect, but I had to blink every few seconds to clear the tears.
My body is falling apart.
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 9:13 AM]