It's in the singing of a street corner choir It's going home and getting warm by the fire It's true Wherever you find love It feels like Christmas A cup of kindness that we share with another A sweet reunion with a friend or a brother In all the places you find love It feels like Christmas It is the season of the heart A special time of caring The ways of love made clear It is the season of the sprit The message if we hear it Is make it last all year It's in the giving of a gift to another A pair of mittens that were made by your mother It's all the ways that we show love That feel like Christmas A part of childhood we'll always remember It is the summer of the soul in December Yes, when you do your best for love It feels like Christmas It is the season of the heart A special time of caring The ways of love made clear It is the season of the sprit The message if we hear it Is make it last all year It's in the singing of a street corner choir It's going home and getting warm by the fire It's true, wherever you find love It feels like Christmas It's true, wherever you find love It feels like Christmas
Is for some good, virtuous, friendly, kindhearted soul to take pity on a very stupid Lizlet and give her a tape of last night's Firefly. She will give you a shiny new blank tape. She will give you brownies. She will give you love.
In other news, Two Towers rules, Tori Amos rocks, and I'm home for Christmas. I think our internet connection is faster here. *g*
But instead I did silly things like laundry and cleaning my bathroom and balancing my checkbook. Do I know how to party or what?
Tonight, a friend is coming over and we're going to watch four hours of television: the Angel she hasn't seen, the Firefly she hasn't seen, the NEW Buffy, and 24. I haven't been watching 24, but it should be interesting to see what's going on. Apparently this season? Cooking with gas.
And now, to work for a few hours, and then commencing the two days of errands I have before me. God. So much Christmas stuff, so little time...
And I thought I'd have a chance to write this week. HAH.
not my fault - it's the space poodles. they have stolen my brain. I needed it but goddamn them, they decided it'd had enough. So they stole the brain.
your mission, should you choose to accept it (but I'd like it if you did, because, well, I miss my brain, sorta) - track down the space poodles. liberate the Lizbrain. And then, we can feast!
this is a dire warning to my family that they'd BETTER start sending me their christmas lists, because otherwise I'm going to start buying things RIGHT NOW. And the space poodles' evil plan will have worked perfectly.
Eric, you like eyebrow waxes, right? Eyebrow waxes for all! The Miller eyebrows are most robust, indeed!
Maren, the reason my song thingy is better is because brevity is the... the thing of something. You know. You know this. But yours is very good as well - if possibly a knowing parody. *g*
Let me ask you guys a question. I wrote a scene last night, and in that scene, a mother gets pissed off at her daughter (no, a different mother/daughter pair, mom) and says this:
BRENDA'S MOTHER You know what's so sad about motherhood? The epidural wears off years before the real pain in your ass.
that's funny, right? or at least sensical?
God, I've become Moby. But with more hair. I know this, I just had to blow-dry it all. So much hair. I have no idea how I ended up with so much of it.
hmmm. it's really time for me to get the heck out of dodge. time to find the brain. it's around here somewhere... Perhaps in Culver City. Which is fortunate, because I have to go there anyways.
To the Angelmobile! Even though Nicky's the only one who gets that joke!
So, I've just finished the Six Feet Under script - aka The Last Assignment of The Semester.
I've been awake for 18 hours, and I wrote 35 pages in that time. Given that in that time span, I did some grocery shopping, watched some tv, and talked to some parents, that's not too bad a per-hour ratio.
I'm currently running low on paper. The next few minutes should tell whether or not I'm mildly hosed or completely hosed.
I'm now done for the semester. Just Christmas shopping, independent screenplay research, and work to deal with now.
Why am I not tired? I mean, it's clearly coming, and soon. But hasn't happened yet.
I can't tell you how overwhelmed I am by all your kind wishes re: the previous post. It's really too sweet of y'all. It means a lot to me.
Note to Nicky: It's highly unlikely, at this point, the situation you pose would occur. Not even with the consideration of my Joss Whedon anxiety dreams.
(and yes, I will call you soon.)
Refugee from Procrastination Planet:
This is one of those random finds that just amuses me a great deal.
My computer doesn't want me to announce this. It keeps crashing on me. Bad computer. Bad.
A few weeks ago, I sent one of my scripts to an agent. I don't expect anything to come of this particular manager, I wrote at the time.
Let's hear it for low expectations.
Got the call on Monday and had the meeting on Thursday. And it's not just the standard "Send me your next thing" sorta deal. He wants to work with me. He works for a non-bogus company. He wants to help me find an idea that will work commercially and artistically. He looks kinda like Alan Tudyk. I like Alan Tudyk.
This isn't my big break. This is just the first step. Nothing's been signed, nothing's been committed. He's not officially representing me. But he's going to read my latest and give me his thoughts, and we're gonna look for the ever-illusive idea that will sell.
And maybe something will happen.
I'm only 21 years old, you know. I haven't even graduated yet. I'm really not ready for this. Especially since I thought this would take a lot longer.
It's pretty goddamn confusing. But that's life for you.
There is no end to the strangeness of my Christmas box. Perfect snowmen candles, scented like cinnamon (a gift from a friend with more money than I), are lost among the plastic ornaments, the thick, gnarled string of lights, the blank Christmas cards printed on cheap paper.
Inflating my Christmas tree is easy - huff puff puff et voila, fake plastic tree. Clear plastic means that the lights strung around it shine through. Little glowing globes of color light - nucleui of cheer.
I untangle my lights and sing carols in my too-low-too-high voice, which actually sounds pretty after a mug of tea and fourteen hours without dairy products. I don't remember any whole songs, so I just sing a chorus over and over. God rest ye merry gentlemen... It would be annoying to anyone else in the room. But I'm alone, and so it's just soothing.
Last night, I was curled up in my armchair, trying to kill off the monster on my back - write FADE OUT. and be happy about it. But just because the last scene is written doesn't mean the screenplay is done, and doesn't mean that I haven't finished the rest of the things I have to do. Doesn't mean I can stop.
It does mean that I can come home tonight, drink decaffeinated tea, take my time with a few remaining assignments. Slowly sketch away an hour, my pencil dancing on my little pad as I try to remember how to draw. Even get ready for the holidays, in my own way.
Cheer echoes from elsewhere. It takes me a moment to remember that I left the TV on in the other room. Comedy Central is the source of the laughter that floats from far away.
The lights are pretty as I wind them around and around - but I'm not good at this part, and the string's coils are tight, tangled. It looks like barbed wire, lining the trenches. Choking my poor little tree.
When I go home, there'll be a real tree and real carols playing on the stereo as my family and I get ready for a real holiday. I'll get eight hours of sleep almost every night, and life will make sense for a short amount of time.
In the meantime, it's after midnight, my roommate is not home, and I'm making my own Christmas as best I can.
Today is the Day of Three Finals. Final 1, this morning, did not go so good. The only thing I did right was avoid reaching the "Oh, fuck it" stage until the last question or two.
Once again, my studying was inadequate and failed to review the major things that ended up being the focus of the exam. Fortunately, though, I have a strong suspicion that no one will ever make me take another exam again. Unless it comes up in Playwriting next semester. Or Interactive Multimedia, which is far more likely.
It's strange, to be thinking "this is my last fall semester, this is my last Christmas break." I don't really know what I'll do with myself come next year. I don't know if I know how to live in a world without school.
I guess, though, that having a job isn't too different. Except for the part that you get to have a life separate from it.
It's a bit premature to be thinking about this, though. First I have to write the rest of my screenplay (~40 pages, due next Monday), revise all of it (~100 pages, due the 16th), and write the rest of my Six Feet Under spec (~45 pages, due the 16th).
Oh, and survive the next semester. And also, get a job. And also, get a life.
wish the future was behind me and i was floating in my past.
So, which of the following did I not do this Thanksgiving weekend?
-Cruise the strip mall -Step foot in a Blockbuster -Fire a .45 automatic -Eat pie morning, noon, and night -Hug a whole lotta family members -Drink a glass of Francis Ford Coppola red wine -Make hummus -Watch parts of at least ten movies, including Legends of the Fall, Tao of Steve, St. Elmo's Fire, Dutch, Panic Room, Boondock Saints, Die Another Day, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and Cats Don't Dance. -Participate in a music-trading summit that would make the RIAA bleed through their eyeballs. -Get anything whatsoever productive done.
I can no longer abide food, movies, or really people. That may be because I stayed up a wee bit late last night doing my best to get caught up with my screenplay, though.
I'm ripping this off Spacefem, because on four hours sleep and two hours of traffic, her words just make SENSE.
Okay, so the born-again christian in my cubicle is doing an online training thing on the Family and Medical Leave Act and I overhear him say, "Ha! Serves you all right!" I ask him what's so amusing and he's like, "Oh, this act doesn't cover domestic partners." He smiles.
I don't want to get into that stuff at work, so after a quick little, "For the record, I don't agree with you on this issue." I turned around and got back to revising foreign cert kits. Today was Austria day (obviously I haven't gotten very far).
Then I got to thinking about assholes. People who really don't care, or make any attempt to understand, the hardships of others. People only lend a hand to those in need if those in need have already proven to be on the same moral, physical, or intellectual ground as they are.
People who are assholes.
People who drive well over the speed limit all the time are assholes. What do they think it's there for, oppression? I've known morons who drove 50mph in subdivisions where little kids play in the front yards. Rules don't apply to them, safety is less important than their image and good time in a car.
People who make $40,000 a year and don't give a dime to charities are assholes. Dammit, what do you have to buy that's so important? Trips? Jewelry? A new car? There are people who can't eat, who have no place to live, who are taken from their families in violent countries with no one to hear about it, and you act like it would kill you to write a check for $50. There are people who make less than half what you do and they find a way to drop a few dollars in the offering plate at church, even when their kids are wearing clothes from the goodwill. What are you going to do with the $50, save it? *In case* something happens? Well something is happening. You're an asshole.
If there's a recycle bin next to a trash can and you put your aluminum pop can in the trash, you're definately an asshole. If you go hunting a lot, just for fun, and never eat what you kill, just take joy in killing innocent animals... asshole.
There are all different kinds of assholes... male, female, christian, agnostic, black, white, american, non-american. I no longer judge groups of people and think, "There are a lot of assholes in that group." There are a lot of assholes in every group.
Now, there is a line, in my opinion, when you're just evil. Then you're not an asshole. Like, child molesters aren't assholes, they're evil and fucked up and deserve to die. I'm against the death penalty so I won't recommend that we actually kill them, but I will admit that they deserve to die. This summer I read about some losers who put a kitten on a grill for fun. They won't get the death penalty but they deserve it.
I'm not saying I'm perfect. I certainly don't run around spreading goodwill to my fellow man, I didn't become a social worker, I don't give as much money as I could to charities. But I've made it one of my goals to just be a good person.
Which is why I didn't throw my computer monitor at my co-worker today. It would have been fun, but people who waste expensive company resources over moronic statements like the one he made are just, well, assholes.