First Examples of the Written Word

I realized that, oddly enough, no matter how much writing I've put on here, I haven't actually posted any writing samples for anyone to take a look at. I might open up a separate blog to hold all of those (probably not, I barely post on this single one as it is), but maybe every once and awhile, when I feel like gracing you all with the spectacularity of my scribblings and stylings, I'll just post something I've been working on up here. I was going to post my zuihitsu on here, but I realized that might be an issue. One: no one actually knows what a zuihitsu is, and I would be completely lost in trying to explain it because my easiest definition is that it is whatever I want it to be because I said so. Two: I kind of mention a few personal things about other people that would probably not want me to share those things, and to the people who know them it would be easy enough to identify them. I'm all for sharing personal stuff about myself, but I gotta respect my friends so that I can delay them realizing that I'm a complete and total ass.

Anyways, instead of that, here are some things I've written over the past few days for my poetry class, plus an oldie that a lot of my friends have seen already that people seem to like. Enjoy. And by that I mean read them. Repeatedly.

The Second Night of Halloween

It is 5:08 in Pittsburgh on a Monday, one day

after Halloween and the trees know it, yes it is

2011 and the leaves stop clinging to their branches

because it seems like a good time to hit

me in the face, Halloween is gone and people

are no longer smiling.

The girls go out as crayons,

colored dresses with black electrical tape around

just enough of the dress that it won’t

come off if they pull at it. Before

they go we brainstorm because there are so many slutty

clichés you can wear that we can’t choose, sexy witch, sexy astronaut—no way would she survive

in space—sexy pirate gets less sexy if I think about Jack Sparrow, and soon we have

to start getting creative, wrack our brains up one by one

to think about the next day, when everybody takes their walks

of shame, when the girls who thought the morning

after would be a clever costume shuffle along the streets

in nothing but a white shirt and cowboy boots

and the wind pulls up goosebumps on their

slick pale legs and I stand by watching, wearing

flannel for fuck’s sake and scribbling in a notebook

thinking that maybe the girls were right, no matter how

much we joke about how the girls have options on options on options

the guys have it easy.

As the Milk Falls

There is no such thing as lunch

on the weekends because Sundays don’t

like it when you do things.

There is a bag of chips in my hand,

flaming hot that I got just because

it’s my least favorite. They have an aftertaste

of ashes. Burn my tongue.

There is a Sun, barely shining, but I

almost wish it would leave me alone

because wouldn’t it be awesome if I had

one of those personal

rainclouds hovering over my head, leaving

that couple walking in front of me

fingers intertwined but silent as I used to

be when I tried to laugh, leaving the clouds

to focus on me. I wish I had an umbrella

because that scene keeps playing in my head

and as the milk falls on Gene Kelly’s head

he just can’t help but sing and that’s exactly how

I want to feel right now right here.

The Poetry of Football on a Sunday Night

Tonight, there will be men and women watching television.

Maybe the men will look up once in a while or

            the women will spend the night knitting

            hats for their children to wear during the winter months and

            maybe the children will be sitting

            far too close to the tube and

            their eyes will cross to the point where

            the pixels can only barely form shapes but

            maybe the children will still smile

            and maybe they will feel like a family or

            at least they will feel what it is like to be a family

Or maybe some of the children will be watching

from their bedrooms and the men

            will drink alone at sports bars while

            listening to the cheering that engulfs them while

            the women watch wondering what all the fuss is about or

            maybe a boy will sneak up to his room

            so quiet

            to play with a barbie while

            his sister wears her bears jersey on her fathers lap and

            his mother shakes her head knowing how little they know

            about the world

            or maybe they will take a deep deep breath.

           

All at once now.

            and the father will cheer with his daughter.

            and the mother will look up from her knitting.

            and the son will snuggle up in bed so close

            so close to a fluffy stuffed bear

            his friend will smile at him and with him.

            and maybe that is okay.

First Night of Gay Movies

I was watching a gay movie tonight instead of reading my homework or writing my novel (and I'm writing this post instead of doing both those things as well, so consider yourself thoroughly used and abused for my own procrastinationary purposes). And, at the risk of sounding like a complete dumbass, I should probably explain what a gay movie is.

There's no such thing as a gay movie. I made the name up, because I just do that and I'm just that awesomely brilliant. I control the English language. Bow down to me.

But seriously, it was a term that I made up to refer to how Hollywood deals with the subject of homosexuality. Usually, that means not well (as much as I find this funny, it kind of proves my point). A gay movie is a movie that is typically made outside of the big L.A. movie razzmatazz and portrays a more honest attempt at broaching the subject with class and some sense of respect. I say attempt because, honestly, they aren't usually good movies. I spend a lot of time picking through the bowels of Netflix Instant Watch to find some of the putrescence that I watch on a regular basis. Netflix has the unfortunate ability to drag some of the worst movies ever created from the core of the earth where they had been resting peacefully, harming no one, and giving them new life by recommending them for my viewing. Naturally, I help it along its way by diving head first into the swamp in my attempts at finding something worth my time. I rarely succeed.

Most of the gay movies I have watched--this is a generalization, but, well, this is my blog post so I can do whatever the hell I want--open up with some sort of sex scene. Usually it's homosexual in nature, but one extremely classy movie decided to juxtapose the two in an attempt to show just how similar they were. Either way, it leads me to the obvious conclusion that the first thing two gay people do when they meet each other is have sex. Obviously. Usually after that, the straight guy or gal runs across the gay guy or gal, and the typical drama ensues. You can see some variations (the gay one is the main character? GASP!) but typically they follow the predictable plot line.

Now, the premises are cliched, but maybe the movies can are more than their opening scene! They probably have good dialogue, terrific acting, a few surprises around some strategically placed corners, or--haha, no, that doesn't happen. My personal favorite opened on a man driving down the road. He stops briefly, and another man, younger, gets into his car. They appear to know each other. They then drive into the woods and have sex rather quickly. They finish. The driver asks the other man if they could make this a regular thing, implying that they have never spoken before. There is a pause. Silence fills the audience with tension. The second man headbutts the driver, who begins to bleed profusely from his broken nose. The second man runs away.

That's the quality of them, but really that's all just the set-up for tonight's happenings. Something strange, wonderful, and interesting happened to me. I was shocked when it happened, but it took me a bit to catch my breath after I had punched myself repeatedly to ensure that I was not, in fact, dreaming.

I found a good one.

DOUBLE GASP. I know. But stick with me, it's just starting to get interesting.

It was called The Gymnast, and I almost didn't watch it because Netflix had given it such a low recommendation for me that I automatically assumed that it was going to be worse than the headbutting one, but it wasn't half bad. It followed the typical plot outline above, minus the sexual opening, but it did it with class. It respected the emotions of its characters, it didn't throw them into any boxes, and only twice did I cringe at the dialogue that no actual human would say. The starring actress (omnisexual playing straight) drove the movie home for me, and her opposite-of-affectionate husband was equally brilliant. The cinematography of all things soared far above the bar (hehe gymnastics pun) and the ending respected both the audience and the characters even though you could tell where it was going. Successful.

I'm sorry to have wasted your time, but none of this is my point.

After a successful movie with not a single name-brand actor or actress, I had to do me some research. I hunted down each and every cast member and I found everything they had ever done ever. I found some interesting tidbits of info (the leading lady I liked was only really in one other movie), but, of course, it was the last one I found that caught my attention. The husband.

He died, a few months after completing principal photography. I researched farther, and I started crying.

His name was David De Simone. He took acting classes when he was studying dancing at Julliard (seriously?) at the age of 16. New York gave him the acting bug, and he started to pursue it until a cut on his hand gave him a staph infection that severely weakened his heart, barring him from both dancing and acting. 20 years later, he walked through the door at the auditions for The Gymnast, with no real prior experience. He has two other credits on IMDb, and one uncredited role from 1986 during his first run as an actor. He took the part with ease, and he nailed it. He gave it his all. And then he had a heart attack, at the age of 46, just after finally realizing his dream.

Well, that's a showstopper, isn't it? Just kind of ruined my night, and I've been sitting here trying to figure out why. I think I've settled on the fact that it basically outlined my worst fear to me, alongside a big neon sign in my head that's been flashing IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU in varying shades of orange, purple, and hot pink.

I've been asked before what I'm afraid of. Usually, I don't have an answer. My sister's afraid of spiders. One of my best friends is afraid of butterflies. Another one of my best friends is afraid of sentimentality (just kidding, Claire) but I never had an answer. Nothing really scared me. This, this story I just told you, scares the crap out of me.

I have no idea what I want to do with my life. I mean, sure, being a writer sounds good. But the question "what are you going to do with an English Major" has been asked by puppets much smarter than me, and they didn't really come up with an answer. I've been trying to pick up a to-be-determined second major to "round out my options", but that's doublespeak for I don't know what the hell I'm doing in four years. I kind of figured this general feeling of inadequacy would fade after a bit after high school. Yeah, that happened.

Worst comes to worst, I could always write the screenplay for a gay movie. That has to pay, like, at least $15. Maybe $20 if I promise not to speak while the director changes everything I wrote on the page. I think I'd like that.

Second Day of Nothing

I like girls. I like guys. I have dated both.

So, here's the thing: I don't really want to make this into a big thing. I mean, I kind of do, but I really really don't. I've been slightly resisting making new posts on here, because none of the posts were really what I wanted to talk about. I have a few pending posts about wearing masks in front of different friends (that one is pretty interesting, you'll have to look forward to that one), about the grim skies of Pittsburgh, about the dramatic effect of rain upon writing style, the values of non-fiction/poetry hybrids. But all of them only touched on the issue that I was actually dealing with in my head the whole time. And, really, that's kind of what this blog has been helping me deal with. (You've just been inceptioned. Yes, that is a word now.)

This blog, for a long time, has been about the transition between adulthood and non-adulthood, about not being sure about what comes next. Well, ironically enough, I still have no idea what comes next. That much hasn't changed for me. Even being in college (yes, I have been woefully out of contact on this blog, and as my consolations I offer you one hundred million apologies, or two hugs, whichever you prefer) has only given me a slight reaffirmation of some things. (I like writing. Yay. I already knew that. Huh.) I'm still wavy on some other things. Like how to talk to someone you look up to. Or how to function in today's society without coming off as a twisted combination of a condescending prick and a socially awkward leper. Kind of like Jesse Eisenberg, but slightly more ethnic.

I feel like I've been hiding a bit of myself for awhile. In my poetry class I wrote a zuihitsu (I'll be posting that on this blog in a bit if you want a glimpse at my mind, slightly edited to protect some identities) about my experiences with masking a faction of myself. I was never changing my personality, but my answers to questions always varied slightly. I was never really honest about things, even if I avoided direct lies. It's like in sitcoms when the character comedically changes their words to skirt around a topic that one of the other characters conveniently can't know. But the world doesn't really work like that. I don't want it to work like that, at least. I have to break that cycle, if I ever want to be able to be happy. That's what this is.

Anyway, I haven't changed that much. At least I don't think so. If anything I've regressed. I fell back into my old pattern of wearing quirky t-shirts because that's how I felt comfortable. I got to remind myself that I was clever every day. I'm trying to break that habit, because I feel much better when I wear something that I like instead of what the people like, but things are slow going. Only a few things are constant.

I love my friends, get to know me and I'll do anything for you. I love my parents, and my sister, because despite their disfunction and occasional inability to stay in the same room, they are more than supportive of everything I try. I love my old team (you know who you are, We're what Willis was talking about). I love writing, because that's what drives me, through everything. And I'm queer.

That's me. No big changes. Nothing to see here.

Last Day on Planet Earth

A few days ago, I played a game of tag. It's not something I do normally. My friends and I were just hanging out, chilling in the park while it was raining at about nine o'clock at night, and someone said what should we do now, so obviously my answer had to be let's play tag.

And chaos reigned.

What followed was one of the most horrifying experiences of my life. It was impossible to know who to trust. It was too dark to see down the entire field, so any tagging that went on over on the far end was unseen by those who hid behind the trees. Sometimes there were screams. You could see the vague outlines of people running from/towards each other, but for all I knew, my friends were being attacked by baby Rancors.

The worst was when the turned and ran towards you. It was impossible to tell if they were the villain or a fellow sufferer of our PG-rated slasher flick. That kid, the one who was running and screaming and laughing and having the greatest night for a very long time is the one that's sitting here, typing these words with childlike whimsy (I really just wanted to use the word whimsy, but I don't think that's still accurate after the Rancor reference).

But that kid isn't going to be there so much in the next coming weeks. In fact, he's gonna start fading away, like Ginny Weasley at the end of the second Harry Potter book (damn, I'm just piling on the nerd references). Eventually, he'll cease to exist, and something else will come up to take his place. That's not necessarily a bad thing. It's not really a sequel, it's a reboot, and not all reboots suck. I could end up becoming a better person. My tastes will probably change, and maybe I'll finally drop that obsessions with Joss Whedon and Ingrid Michaelson that I'm sure are unhealthy. I'm not really scared about any of that.

Over the past two or so weeks, I have said goodbye way too many times. Like, almost more times than I can count. In fact, one of my best friends was just over here a few minutes ago, and I guess she's what inspired this post. It made me think about what I'm going to be like the next time I come back here, how I'll be changed when I see her again. And that just made me worry about all of my other friends, how different I'll be then.

People change. That's a fact. But all through our public school days we were around each other, and as we changed our friends changed with us. We evolved into our friendships, making little adjustments here or there, making exceptions to rules when this one or that one picked up a habit that annoyed us, or standing by through a particularly disastrous romantic entanglement to ensure their safety. Sometimes we intervened, sometimes we fought, sometimes we lost friends. But for the most part we stayed in tact.

So what happens when we can't grow together, when we have to go at it alone for awhile. (Get your mind out of the gutter. Pervert.) In approximately seven hours, I will be leaving for a very long time. How much different will I be by then? Will our close-knit group even function together? How changed will we be?

Before I moved to the mountains, I had about two or three extremely close friends and a few people that I liked being around and talking to. I still talk to them from time to time, and--especially the close friends--I miss them. A lot sometimes. Now that I'm here, I have about 15 friends that I am going to severely miss and so many good friends that I'm sure that at least 5 of them have been in a movie with someone who was also in a movie with Kevin Bacon. That is a lot of connections to maintain, and I'm not sure the kid who keeps throwing out Rancor references is up to it.

It's kind of lucky, then, maybe, that this is that kid's last day on Earth. Starting tomorrow, he's going to start getting erased and redrawn. (Personally, I'm holding out hope that he'll be redrawn acne-free and with phoenix wings, but I'm willing to keep the acne in exchange for the wings.) Maybe the new kid'll be able to keep up the relationships, maybe he'll just get closer to his friends. Maybe he'll be happier. Maybe he'll be more himself, he'll fall in love, write a Pulitzer Prize winning novel, settle down. Maybe he'll write a screenplay that Joss Whedon decides to direct (seriously, unhealthy). Or maybe he'll get hit in the eyes by toxic waste tomorrow and he'll gain extrasensory abilities at the cost of his eyesight.

Either way, I'll be waiting on the edge of my seat to see how he ends up. I'll make the popcorn.

First Lessons Learned from NYC

Ok, so there's a story behind that blog title. I had a whole plan here: make a list every two days or so, title it "first" then "second" then "third" and then, if I had the time, maybe "final" once I got home. It was going to be a seven day extravaganza: in on Friday, out on Thursday, and composition book full of lessons to share with all of my loyal followers (if you all don't mind, I'm going to pretend that there are more of you to pump up the bicycle tire of my ego). I was going to NEW YORK CITY. And, on the train ride into the town, I had already learned 3 FULL LESSONS. I was so excited! The world was my oyster! I was seizing things that might or might not have been days! I had my whole life in front of me! I had cliches practically sprouting from all my various orifices!

And then the week happened. And, well, I spent a little bit less time on my computer than was expected.

I spent quite a bit of time on it, but nowhere near enough to get any blog writing done. So, here we are, the final day of my trip (I return to the mountains to shiver in the rain and mud tomorrow night). I let time get away from me, and now all of my brilliant ideas that would have put me into the bloggerdom hall of fame are gone. (I assume there is one of those. I mean, there is a Magic: The Gathering Hall of Fame, so I assume there's a more general one for people with a similar lack of a social life, just minus the card playing.) Anyway, here's the stuff I learned from the Big Apple*.

Lesson One: People Will Go to Any Lengths Possible to Not be Near You (or Maybe Just Me)
This was an odd one to learn, and I realized it almost immediately after I got off of my plane on Friday. I disembarked, scrambled around for a few minutes because I had no idea where I was going, and I finally made it to the AirTrain about half an hour later (seriously, I have no sense of direction).

If you've ever been on an AirTrain, in any city/airport, than you know that the AirTrain compartments are all the same: square shaped, two compartment-long benches on either side, two double sliding doors, and a few poles for those not fortunate enough to get a seat to hold onto. Now, with so little space and so little sitting room, it should seem that people would be more willing to be around each other, at least grudgingly. (If that's what you think, you must have missed the title of this lesson. How? I mean, it's in bold. You were supposed to read it. Idiot.)

Somehow, we managed to space ourselves, without any discussion or thought, so that we would not have to interact whatsoever. There were five of us, so where were we sitting? Four of us in each corner and--ignoring the perfectly good two free seats available on either side of the compartment--one grasping the center pole. It's the same (mind-numbingly stupid) principle that you can see if you're a man in a bathroom: if the two side urinals are in use, using the middle one automatically makes you evil. No ifs, ands, or buts; no one cares if you "really have to go" or anything. Similarly, nobody cares if your legs are exhausted because you just ran from the other end of the terminal because you're late for your flight. If you take that center spot, you are officially a dick. No one wants to interact with you. On a similar note...

Lesson Two: Everyone Hates Your Eyes (or, Once Again, Maybe Just Mine)
This one was so so amazingly baffling, mostly because I had been doing it and I didn't even notice until I was sitting on the overcrowded subway and clutching my things with an intense fear of them being stolen. But people will seriously go to any lengths possible to not make eye contact with you. The advertisements all up and down the train (all exactly the same, by the way, or alternating between two variations on the same product) suddenly become very interesting, the weaving seam of your purse, the discovery that your shoes are laced up incorrectly, etc. etc.

But that rule only stands as long as someone is looking in a remotely similar direction as you. Staring--revision: leering--is acceptable, as long as the person (leeree?) is unaware of your actions. I saw that happening far too many times to assume that it was not happening to me when I turned away. Oh, and don't worry, unattractive people. The leering happens regardless of gender or general attractiveness. Everyone gets leered at. Equality for all!

Lesson Three: Socks Were Created By God
I am now convinced of this. I did not exactly pack enough socks for the trip, because I assumed two things: first, I could always wear my long socks with my jeans, and second, I could always resort to wearing my flip-flops. I was completely and totally wrong. It was waaaaay too hot for the jeans, and the single flip-flop adventure I had gave me enormous blisters. So I tried a few days without socks.

That didn't exactly work so well. My blisters are even bigger now (they look angry at me, so I think there's something living inside of one of them). Also, sand gets everywhere. Seriously, everywhere, even when you aren't walking in sand it gets everywhere. Sand and dirt. There is sand in my bed right now because it was under my toenails. I am annoyed.

Lesson Four: Walking is Exercise
Aside from the rare subway trips, I walked everywhere. Now, after swim season was over, I pretty much stopped exercising. The fact that I have not gained weight is something that scientists will be debating after I become famous and my life becomes taught to schoolchildren from grades K-12, but I'm a bit more confused by the fact that I now have my six pack back. Seriously. Months and months of destructive work to my body, and a few, hellish days of walking and my body is on its way to being back in shape.

I have no idea how someone can gain weight in New York City. I have been eating--seriously--nothing but junk. I have been so unhealthy. I feel a little bit gross even thinking about what I have eaten. But my stomach flab is shrinking back in on itself. Unless you have some sort of condition, it just doesn't make sense to me.

Lesson Five: People Are Gross
Okay, last one (if you've read this far, I have no idea how you have so much willpower, because this is an unacceptably long post). The city itself is a prime example of this. There is no justifiable reason for what I have seen going on around here. There are trash cans on just about every corner. I saw residential blocks that had literally forty trash cans on them. All of them accessible. Just sitting there, within reach. And yet, less than a foot away, there's a slushie container, poured out over the ground. There are cigarettes and gum-stains everywhere. And even though it gave the city, um, "character", there aren't many socially acceptable contexts where you can drop your 24 oz Pepsi onto the sidewalk, glance at it disappointedly--as if it was the cup that did something wrong--and then walk away as if nothing was different.

Also, I find spitting weird. I blame my mother. And gum. Oh, so many gum stains**. And the Hudson is disgusting. It is calculated by Doctor *coughcoughcoughcough* that it is made up of about 40% water and 60% random-you-don't-want-to-know-stuff. (What? Didn't catch that name? Tough.)

So, yeah, that's my trip in a nutshell. I feel like I should have hit some sort of epiphany while I was here, some sort of moral pinnacle. That didn't happen. I guess I'm not really a New York kinda guy. I wasn't quite in the Empire State of Mind (hehe, I made a funny). Maybe the moral of this story will hit me once I get home. Anyway, I took some cool pics of the city, and I'm coming out of it unscathed. I had a good time, I suppose. And I got to spend time with my sister without wanting to rip her head off--or, well, mostly.

Trip=Successful.

(*Sidenote: Why "Big Apple"? I believe "Big Pizza" or "Big Starbucks" or "Big Hipster" would be more appopriate, as all are more common here than apples.)

(**Sidenote II: Someone really needs to invent something to disintegrate gum. Someone was talking about it before, can't remember who. They'd be a millionaire. Scientists, forget about the other stuff: this will make you rich.)

First Day of Horror

So, oddly enough, I was just thinking about this blog. As of today, it has been one month and three days since the last update, and that was because...well, because I didn't exactly have anything to write about. That's not to say I haven't been busy; my life has been one constant stream of interesting (not that I'm going to tell any of you about it, mind your own damn business). What I mean is, every time I sat down to write something for this blog--at least three times that I can think of--I realized that the topic was just too personal, too unfocused, too much inspired by the lonely, squabbling complaints of my heart (no, don't complain, I'm still not going to tell you about my life). But then, a few days ago, I actually had a legitimate topic to write about.

And then I didn't write it.

Why? I dunno. Jesus, seriously, stop complaining, I'm here now, aren't I?

Anyway, a few days ago I sat down to a seemingly routine movie night with a few of my friends. I had assumed that the movie night would be a safe place to spend my somewhat-waking-hours, seeing as the past few movies featured had been the TV movie A Wrinkle in Time (don't know about that one, I slept through it), the Japanese cartoon flick Castle in the Sky (...I may have also slept through parts of this one, but most of it was dominated by a discussion about the most horrifying pokemon EVER and also Super Mario Brothers), and well, um...I honestly do not remember any of the other movies we've watched (I'm starting to sense a sleeping pattern here).

But this one, my friends, oh they failed me. I was picked up at some time or other, right around when the sun was setting or starting to set or maybe not. (I wear a watch, but who actually looks at their watch? That's what phones are for.) And we drove, and my friend and I talked about random this and random that. Nothing big, but we bantered for a bit and listened to his hipster music. The only thing important about my transportation story: I did not drive myself; THERE WAS NO ESCAPE.

By the time we arrived, we were a little late (we had paused to walk my dog before leaving), and they had already started watching...THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT (cue ominous wind howling in the background with sketchy, far off bumping and scratching noises).

It may be useful to point out that I have zero tolerance for horror movies. I really do mean zero. When I went to see Cloverfield (totally serious here), that was the edge of my tolerance. It wasn't scary per say, but those few scenes with moderately scary things made my jump. When another friend of mine (who is more scared than me, by the way) convinced me to watch Paranormal Activity, the only thing that didn't actually scare me was the ending (SPOILER ALERT...nah, just kidding, I wouldn't do that to you). So it went without saying that the Blair Witch was terrifying me in all of its never-before-seen glory. The ending had been spoiled for me a long time ago, and the last five minutes still almost made me cry.

Stick with me here, I'm almost to the good part.

So we finished the Blair Witch off. Not literally, because that thing is as close to the devil as ghosts come (on a side note, if you want to movie spoiled for you, take a look at this action figure and realize that never seeing the creature is the only thing that makes it scary). And we sat there, scrolling through Netflix Instant, attempting to find something to watch. My friends seemed to be on a horror binge, so, despite my highly vocal and maybe tearful protests, we stumbled onto another one:

THE EXORCIST.

Supposedly the scariest movie of all time, released to rave/disgusted reviews, hailed by some as the beginning of a new generation of horror, The Exorcist began to play and I squeezed the life out of that poor couch cushion. And then some time passed, and 30 minutes in I was waiting to be scared. Another 30. Then another 30. Then another 30. Then another--oh wait, the movie's only 2 hours long? It's over? What?

It turned out, I was not even remotely scared by what was happening on screen. Don't get me wrong, I was enthralled; the movie was, perhaps, one of the best horror movies I have ever seen (yea, I know I have no frame of reference for that) and maybe even one of the best movies I have ever seen (I do have a frame of reference for that one: I am a dork). But it just wasn't scary. That is to say, from our 2011 perspective, the movie didn't even seem to be trying to be scary. Even my friend, who jumps at the slightest movement and thought that the font used for the title of the old Goosebumps books looks frightening just sat there watching the movie, lamenting with all of us that she was not really being scared.

So...what happened? I was more scared by Paranormal Activity than The Exorcist?

Yep, and I am forced to conclude that I am desensitized. My toe-dipping-into experience of horror only served to point out how much we are willing to put up with in our day to day lives. This trailer scares me more than the Exorcist does, and its less than two minutes long.

And think about what we actually have to be scared of. If you live in a city, you can always be mugged or raped (yay, alleyways!), which the news loves to tell us/warn us about. Big Brother is starting to watch us as that thing called the internet becomes more PATRIOT-y. Global warming, war, terrorism, car crashes, oil spills, grandfathers stung to death by dozens of wasps. It seems like the world is just out to get us sometimes, and maybe it is. And the news and the media just keep spoon feeding us those stories of everyday horror to boost up their ratings.

So when you watch a girl (ACTUAL SPOILER ALERT) spinning her head around and listen to the sinews cracking in her neck, it seems kind of justified to think, Eh, all in a day.

Is it just me, or is that thought kind of horrifying?