Quick!  An important, life-altering decision needs to be made:  Should I or should I not retire the Legolas poster?  In the poster’s defense, it was a great gift and I’ve enjoyed it a lot.  And I still love Lord of the Rings (the movies, I’ve grown accustomed to the fact that I shall never actually read the books).  But on the other side of the argument, everytime I look at it I feel a bit silly, and think, “A 13-year-old-girl should have this poster in her bedroom, surrounded by teenage boys cut out from YM magazine or whatever.  This poster should not be in the bedroom of a 19-year-old college student.”  [Note to Angi: I am the 19-year-old in question.  Now the next time you see me you can either be a) excited I mentioned you in my journal or b) upset that I accused you of forgetting my age; to which I will respond either a) favorably or b) by reminding you of the recent conversation in which you tried to determine what kind of 20-year-old I am, respectively.  Choice is yours!]  The other problem with…what was I talking about again?  Oh yeah, Legolas…the other problem is that I happen to have this poster on my closet door, and somehow I always forget to close said door before climbing into the loft, which is fine except that the way my room is arranged, this open door means every night pointy-eared Orlando Bloom is brandishing a sword and staring at me while I try to fall asleep.  Even after I fall asleep, he keeps staring.  It’s disconcerting.  There’s also the issue that Legolas’s poster is considerably larger than Indiana Jones’s poster, and that’s just unhealthy.

Perhaps I am just a freak.  Scratch that — I am definitely a freak, especially after this random midnight rant.  Too bad, really, because after reading Stephen King’s memoir I had really intended to be introspective and deep and…all think-y and stuff.  King wrote his memoir section of On Writing with ‘snapshots’ of various memories, starting with the earliest thing he remembers, which happens to be dropping a cinder block on his foot.  This makes sense to me; if you’re a Stephen King, a first memory of pain seems only natural and serves a sort of inspirational jumping-off point for all of life as a sci-fi horror writer.  I, however, am not a Stephen King; therefore my first memory does not hold such inspiration (or pain, thankfully).  It’s more about me, sitting at my kitchen table at my third birthday party, surrounded by friends I don’t remember, family members I’d like to forget, and cupcakes I’d like to duplicate right now.  Mmm, cupcakes.  For whatever reason, I specifically remember drumming my fingers on the table (was I an impatient three-year-old? I don’t know), noticing my cousin Christi copying me, and quickly varying the speed and pattern of drummage so as to throw her off.  And this image, three-year-old me wanting nothing more than to thwart my cousin and eat birthday cupcakes (hmm, perhaps this says more about me than I would to admit), is my first memory.  Doesn’t really make for gripping prose, does it?  So my memoir’s already shot to shit, better just skip the introspection and head straight for the gossip.

First, Happy Birthday to Jesse, who does not read this site, but if she did she would be upset at the lack of Happy Birthday-age.  And second, Lacy is in England.  Or Scotland.  Or someplace between here and there, still making the journey to her castle.  The journey to her castle…wow, that’s a little nutty.  So am I, I’m a little nutty, but I refuse to acknowledge my sudden loss of sanity and instead am compelled to ignore all my reality-based worries and instead spend my time worrying about poster retirement and memoirs of a 20-year-old.  I mean 19.  Although 13 seems a more accurate description at this moment (especially with my every move being mocked by Orlando.  Maybe that’s what bothers me about this poster, he has a very judge-y look on his face (it’s his ‘acting look’).)

Yikes.  I’m going to bed, and this time I’m going to remember to close the closet door.  That’s right, I’m Wonderwoman, don’t even try to thwart me.  I hope I dream about cupcakes…or Indiana Jones.  Indiana Jones with cupcakes.  Yum.


5 responses

  1. okay I came up with a solution.  You feel a definate loyalty to Mr. Bloom and rightfully so- yet you want more of a 20-something’s sophistication am I correct?  Simply do this: Buy a Cosmo- blow up some semi-naked hottie’s body-paste it onto Orlando.  See, we never really change between the ages of 13 and 20, we just get naughtier.  This is also a process of regeneration.  When you’re 30 you can go ahead and paste glasses on him, remove some of his hair from his head and give him a thought bubble that says ” of course you can use all of my paycheck to buy curtains honey.” 

  2. Poster Deliema-  Either get a larger Indiana Jones poster or resolve that size doesn’t matter.  Keep Legolas.  Though your not thirteen anymore, even a “19 year-old” (I won’t recant your real age, because your already old enough that you lie in hopes that someone will think you’re younger) deserves to drift into sleep with an elves’s big brown eyes gazing at her silhouette.  You’re never too old for that- even at “19.”

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