For some reason, earlier this evening I was feeling rather shite, so I took a nap in the guest bedroom.
Yeah, I'm living in the guest bedroom now, on account of the fact that my whole room still smells like dead dogs. I'm not kidding. I actually went looking for Oscar's corpse in there one afternoon - that's how convincing the smell is. I can't be bothered to tell the story again, so if you want to know about the stench and where it came from, you can read about it here. Otherwise, on with the story...
No, wait. Not on with the story. I want to talk about the guest bedroom for a little longer. Yeah, it sucks that my actual bedroom, my sanctuary, my safe haven, my favourite place to dance naked in front of the mirror and make out with my life-size poster of Wentworth Miller (did I type that out loud?) smells like such a lethal combination of rat poison, ceiling insulation and, well, dead bodies, that I can't even bear to open the door, let alone go in there. I mean, apart from the occasional mission for clean undies or nail polish - and even then I have to wear goggles and hold my breath the whole time.
Still. Having to live in the guest bedroom is definitely the upside of this whole situation. Because living in the guest bedroom means I get liberal use of the guest bedroom bed. And, more importantly, what's on the guest bedroom bed - The Magic Doona.
Oh, The Magic Doona. Have I told you about The Magic Doona? I don't think so. Here's the 411:
It's a doona.
I mean it. The best nights of my life have all been spent in the company of this doona. I never sleep as good as I do when I'm all snuggled up in that white downey goodness. Not even in Michael James, my own bed (yeah, I named my bed. What of it?), which anyone who knows me knows is probably my favourite possession of all time. Honestly though, I would die a happy woman if I could spend every night of the rest of my life with this doona. And Wentworth Miller.
Oh, my goodness, can you imagine Wentworth Miller wrapped in The Magic Doona?
Alright, enough. Enough! Let's stop before I lose conciousness.
And so ends my rant about the guest bedroom. Now where was I?
Oh yeah. So I just woke up from my nap and now I'm sitting here drinking a ridiculously large cup of coffee and watching The Mist, some terrible low-budget interpretation of a Stephen King novel. It's corny, it's gruesome, it's laughable, and I love it.
Love it, love it, love it.
I love The Mist. I love it. Did I say that already? Well, whatever.
It takes all the weirdest, craziest, funniest and most maniacal elements from other movies and packs them all together to form 2 hours and 5 minutes of car-smashing, tentacle-stabbing, gun-shooting, flame-throwing, head-exploding, Lord-Of-The-Flies-style fun.
I definitely recommend a viewing. Warning, though: It gets kind of disgusting. I mean kind of really disgusting. Like, face-getting-ripped-off-by-a-giant-tentacle-with-claws disgusting. It helps if, like me, you watch so many movies and so much TV that you're permenantly de-sensitised to violence.
Speaking of being permenantly de-sensitised to violence, the other day my Mum watched me sit through the whole of Saw 4 without batting an eyelid, and now she thinks I'm a robot.
And I quote:
"This movie is horrible! How can you watch this? Are you dead inside? Or a robot? Phillip!! Our daughter is a robot!!"
Oh, okay. Now I know which side of the family I inherited CRAZY from.
Really, though, it made me think. Am I a robot? Or have I just seen too many episodes of Bones? I'm not sure, all I know is that a corpse could roll out from under the couch and start coughing Malaria in my face right now, and I probably wouldn't even blink.
I'm not sure whether that's totally cool or completely depressing. Either way, I'm pretty sure I can make a career out of it.
So it's all good.