It's possible that I had just reached some sort of critical mass, misery-wise, and that one more cold, grey, cloudy, rainy day was just too much to bear. It's possible that the 3 weeks until my homegoing are just 3 weeks too far, that I had become hopelessly, helplessly, irreconcilably mired in despair, and the reprieve was too little, too late.
But that's not quite accurate. As insulting as it is to have a "welcome to the team" lunch planned for the people who will replace me (remember when I wrote about the "welcome to the team" lunch they had for me? No? Me neither. Must have been an "oversight" -- I mean, could they have disliked me before I even got there?), it doesn't eclipse my relief about going home.
No, my malaise was caused by something far more insidious. Who the holy fuck nominates movies for Golden Globes? Mrs. Porter's "special" group of 2nd graders in Oak Heights Elemantary, Evanston, IL? Or maybe it's the night shift at Bob's Chik'n'Shak on Highway 90 in Uvalde? It can't possibly be someone with enough neurons to constitute a synapse beause for some reason even more incomprehensible to me than Whoopi Goldberg's Oscar for "Ghost" is the fact that a) "Closer" was made at all, and b) it was nominated for any kind of accolade, honor, or award. I don't just want my fucking money back, I want my 2 hours back. I want my dignity back. I want my will to live back.
Not since "Short Cuts" have I ever been so completely demoralized and, well, psychically damaged by a film. Oh, there was "Crash" in between there -- that was also an 11 on the crap-o-meter.
I couldn't leave because I was there with a friend. Stuck. Gah. Afterwards, when it was too late, I checked the reviews on Yahoo. One of the regular people who had reviewed the movie (Two snaps down! Hated it!) made some sort of ludicrous argument about how Julia Roberts had "debased" herself by being in the movie. I think that had happened way back when she divorced Lyle Lovett.
Anhoo, my time is up on this crappy rent-a-compy.1 comments so far