Jan. 5th, 2011

langwidere: sailor moon, sailor mars, and sailor mercury (ラブリイー)
I had a very nice Christmas — I got a new baby Kindle, a Threadless teeshirt which is not overtly humiliating, and a giant amazing Hokusai book that I have been humping nonstop since I unwrapped it. So, during Christmas, I had the fun — but after Christmas I was forced, by the Politeness Monster (and also the Obligation Monster), to visit some of my adoptive father’s relatives, who somehow always manage to make me feel as though I am the Venus Hottentot and they are all positively astonished I can use my silverware so adeptly. This is no mean feat, considering the intensity of my personal dorkiness. (They are, on average, essentially the figures depicted in American Gothic; when my father’s father was alive, my father’s sister asked my mother to keep me away from him because my blackness made him "uncomfortable.") (Really!) (I didn’t find that out until a couple of years ago, because naturally Mom was too awesome to let something so stupid affect me at the age of eight.) (She did keep me away from the weird old idiot for clearly related reasons, however.)

I'm not getting you down at all, am I? Don't take it personal. I was the designated excuse-generator on this particular excursion; I agreed to accompany my father (who hates his family, of course) specifically in order to feign illness and get everybody out several hours early. I am the very soul of self-sacrifice! Don't I know it.

I watched some things!

Should I cut? It's pretty long; I’ll cut.

But everything you learn there will help when you return there. )

Hey, I am retarded and I like children's movies! I think that goes without saying, though. Adult movies are insultingly loud and misogynistic, or insufficiently full of Alan Rickman as Hwæt the pansermøøse, or boring pointless depressing love stories about long-dead dumb white people who wrote lovely poetry and made pretty hats but failed to notice that they were all going to die sooner or later anyway, so please stop crying already. I mean, come on, lady — what are you, a talking animal? Now, they have real problems.