Okay, let's finish up the Worst Week Ever with a comprehensive recap.
Wednesday: Got my notice of waitlisting at Illinois.
Friday: Got notice of rejection to Iowa.
Sunday: Stepped out of bedroom into hallway into lake. Four phone calls and a couple of days later, found out a pipe in the wall had rusted out. (Still living in a lake--thankfully, it's at least confined to the non-carpeted areas of my apartment.)
Tuesday: Walked out of apartment building, stepped off the curb and reached my car only to realize, "Hm. That dangly mess of broken plastic and exposed wiring is definitely where my driver's side mirror used to be."
Tuesday night: After a sudden computer crash, spent about an hour ascertaining that, according to Disk Utility and my own diagnostic skills, my brand new MacBook's hard drive was shot. Fun fact: Exact, absolutely exact same thing happened to my iBook four years ago. I had had each computer less than a month.
Later Tuesday night: Got drunk as balls and made a really unfortunate, insensitive, and altogether awful comment in front of my boyfriend. Nothing like spilling other people's family secrets in front of a roomful of vague acquaintances.
Wednesday: Got the car's mirror replaced, took the computer to the shop, got a well-deserved lecture from the boyfriend. Computer guy called to confirm suspicions that yes, the hard drive is absolutely and totally shot. Drove home to borrow Dad's laptop for the duration of the computerlessness. Made the mistake of curiously Spotlighting my own name, opened up an innocuous-looking file that happened to be a homework assignment of my brother's in which he vehemently criticized all my most major flaws for comic effect for his (and my former) English teacher. I suppose I deserve this for snooping.
But yes, all in all, it's been a rough week. Between bad luck and my own dumb ass, I've lain awake a few nights watching
Across the Universe.
On a lighter note, that movie should have been really good, right? And it isn't? I blame the incredibly heavy-handed Julie Taymor, who suffers badly from Sam Mendes Syndrome ("I AM DEEP I AM DEEP I AM SO SO FUCKING DEEP"). I also struggle with the writing and the apparent need to insert characters and situations simply because HEY GUYS WE MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIT A BEATLES SONG HERE--I'm looking at you, Prudence. To be fair, I guess they did pay the terrible Sir Paul & Co. ten million dollars, so they might as well jam-pack the thing. I also blame Evan Rachel Wood for being absolutely devoid of likability...every time, I end up rooting for Molly like the entire movie is going to magically change.
But it's fun to watch, yes? Mostly because I want to impregnate Jim Sturgess. No, I don't know how that would work. But it would be sexy. I'd consider Joe Anderson, too, but first he'd have to promise never to speak in that awful fake American accent ever again.
