Collaborative Blogging, Film Reviews

Filth, or: Remarkable Levels of Desensitization

Last week of free reign until mindless gory horror month begins in…2 days?!?!?!?! 2 DAYS. So ready.

My pick this time around is Filth, which I have been meaning to watch forever but have been avoiding (STUPIDLY) because I didn’t want to watch Jamie Bell act like a complete sleaze bucket. Billy Elliot is one of my favorite bad day films, and I didn’t want to watch it at some point in the future and think about Billy snorting coke and visiting prostitutes a few years down the road.

Christa beat me to the punch on this one, but she was cool with watching again b/c she’s in general a cool human being. You can find her thoughts, various and sundry, here.

The Film:

Filth

Where to Watch:

Netflix (US)

The Premise:

James McAvoy plays Bruce Robertson, corrupt cop, backstabber, and all-around scumbag scheming for a promotion in Edinburgh.

The Uncondensed Version:

This is tricky because I have a lot of things to say about this film, but it’s reasonably important not to give everything away.

I’d say there are essentially a series of mysteries surrounding Bruce’s character, the main one being whether or not he will land the big promotion that he’s doing his best to lie and manipulate his way into. According to some kind of bizarre scenes with Bruce’s wife, the promotion is the only thing that can fix whatever has happened between them and make her respect him again. When Bruce is assigned to a murder case, everything hinges on whether he can catch the skinheads who brutally murdered a Japanese student.

Right off the bat it’s clear that (1) James McAvoy is beautiful and I forgot how perfect his voice is, and (2) Bruce has issues. With anger, drug and alcohol abuse, sexual relationships (and, in fact, all human relationships), lying, and feeling absolutely no remorse. He tells us how great Scotland is while looking absolutely disgusted with humanity and making small children cry. Needless to say, this film made a great impression within the first 15 minutes.

A man covers his ears as he passes another man playing bagpipes on a street corner
Not a fan of the bag pipes. The shame.

Bruce introduces us to his coworkers (including Jamie Bell/Billy Elliot and Billy Elliot’s dad!), all of whom he is actively trying to sabotage in order to guarantee his promotion. So Bruce works on the murder case, but it really takes a backseat to having affairs, spreading nasty rumors, and making everyone uncomfortable.

Just to emphasize what a shitty human being Bruce is, we have Cliff, his best and only friend. Bruce is making anonymous calls of a suggestive nature to Cliff’s wife, Bunty (Shirley Henderson wearing a shitload of make up). Since Cliff is a prominent accountant, the case is supposed to get Bruce’s first priority…and it does. Just not in the way his superiors probably intended.

A man and woman look across at each other from opposite ends of a white sofa. Behind them is a large painting of a lion attacking a zebra.
Have I mentioned I want their living room??? Because I want their living room.  THAT PAINTING.

This is all going reasonably well for Bruce until he tries and fails to revive a man who collapses on the street. After this incident, Bruce seems to be genuinely disturbed as he’s haunted by visions of a dead child. It also becomes clear that things aren’t as great on the home front, esp. as we never actually see Bruce interact with his wife and child.

For the remainder of the film, Bruce just continues to lose his shit while experiencing increasingly vivid hallucinations of various people as animals. Also his psychiatrist, Jim Broadbent with a an Australian accent, who reminds him only winners get laid and that you should trust no one, especially not yourself. So basically the same thing any psychiatrist would say, right?

A man in a labcoat gestures to a framed picture of worm-like creatures
IDK if you guys have ever done therapy, but this is exactly how it went for me.

Okay, that’s all I’ll say because if you enjoy films in which absolutely everyone is despicable, the humor is pitch black, and the protagonist is certifiably insane, you may want to actually watch this one. Or at least stare at James McAvoy’s beautiful face. Either way, I don’t want to ruin this film for you.

The Rating:

Small Pink PantherSmall Pink PantherSmall Pink PantherSmall Pink Panther 4/5 Pink Panther Heads

Even though this movie was disgusting and depraved, it’s really hard to shock me any more (which I attribute to Wetlands).  Have I just become so desensitized that nothing disturbs me any more???  Is our blog collab taking that much of a toll on my mental health???  I’d like to see you prove that in a court of law.  Still…I think more disturbing than the scenes designed to repulse viewers is how remorselessly Bruce manipulates everyone to get what he wants.  Also how attractive James McAvoy is even as the sleaziest dirtbag ever.

Not a perfect film, but James McAvoy losing his shit is the best kind of James McAvoy. All of the acting in this one was spot-on, honestly.

The only down side is I really, really want to watch Trainspotting again now. It’s on Netflix, Christa! Eh, eh, eh?

Speak of the devil…you know Christa has a lot of delightfully snarky things to say about this film. Why are you still here when you could be reading her review here?

Blogging University, Writing

Writing 101: I Know You’re Just Here for the Food (and/or Cats)

This prompt I’ll do even though it included a quote from a fortune cookie (please tell me you rolled your eyes too, Christa).

Based on my poll, all 3 of you who read this blog are evenly divided between the topics of cats, books, and food.  It’s like you’ve kept hanging on with this blog because we have something in common.

Under more typical circumstances, I would be happy to talk about books, but stress brain is making it impossible for me to concentrate on reading.  Or really anything, but at least I have reliable coping mechanisms that require little concentration:  bothering Bertha Mason (and, indirectly Joey [who now gets the dubious honor of being The Other Cat]), stress baking, and throwing things away.

I’m really tired of writing about me, though, and I don’t understand how you guys aren’t sick of hearing about me.  You must be extremely patient souls.

Let’s combine the subjects of cats and food by talking about a cat who loved food, Cowboy (named for his black-and-white spots rather than a familial obsession with the western genre or the Dallas football team).  Cowboy was the cat who was around for most of my childhood and with whom I had a love/hate relationship. He was a terrible cat, you guys. Terrible. I was afraid to sleep because Cowboy attacked my hair and liked to murder sparrows and hide under my bed growling like a maniac. Fucked up when you’re 7, right? I also lost a friend because Cowboy chased her down a hallway during one of my birthday parties. Seriously, she never spoke to me again.  Thanks, cat, but I do well enough embarrassing myself in social situations without your help.

Cowboy was a feral cat, so he never really settled down until he was too old to care (and had to have most of his teeth taken out because he would never let the vet look at his rotting teeth). Basically he was afraid of nothing and motivated only by food…which I can respect.

Action shot!
Action shot!

Let’s make a list of things Cowboy ate that he shouldn’t have because why the fuck not:

  1. My hair (see above)
  2. A plant I was supposed to grow for a science project (and really plants as a whole)
  3. Loaves of bread left out on the counter
  4. Brownies my friend JG made when she visited from New York
  5. Barbie feet (though, in retrospect, I probably should thanked him for his hostility towards the patriarchy)
  6. All things dairy even when they made him vomit
  7. Cardboard
  8. Rubber bands
  9. Catnip (the only normal cat thing he ate, but it made him extra aggressive)
  10. Basically all non-fruit objects

Truly, I admired his spirit.

One lonely person who voted for books, I will make a real effort to do another book review. I promise. Hopefully The Heart Goes Last.

Blogging University, Writing

Writing 101, or: I’d Rather Talk About Margaret Atwood

Blogging prompt I was supposed to use some time last week (Thursday maybe?  Let’s say Thursday):  Recreate a single day.

Remember Saturday? How I ate a lot of cheese and expertly hand washed my sweaters?

Way ahead of you, Writing 101. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay ahead of you.

So I’m just going to write about Margaret Atwood instead, who is incredibly ahead of us all.

I wasn’t really aware Margaret Atwood had written yet another novel until about a month ago, or at least it was buried deep in some hidden corner of my brain. Ever since, I have been obsessed with The Heart Goes Last, and I’m dying to read it. I keep telling myself I’m going to wait for a library copy, but it will be published tomorrow, and I’m kind of leaning towards the “Fuck it, I need this now” option. Prime is the great enabler of my terrible financial decisions.

All I know is this novel is about a married couple agreeing to spend alternate months serving a prison sentence (for reasons I don’t know), which is bound to be so very bitter and bleak and darkly funny. And in this interview with the goddess herself, she says it’s about sex robots. (I really feel you should read the interview. It includes a brilliant 5-word Margaret Atwood story: “Wanted him. Got him. Shit.”)

Have you read the MaddAddam trilogy? Please, please do. I’m hoping for more of the absolutely dismal picture of humanity MA gives us while writing women characters who are so enviably strong and capable. Mostly Toby from Year of the Flood.  I can’t think of anyone who writes as beautifully sarcastically as Margaret Atwood, who has given us “Say about others what you would have them say about you. In other words, nothing.” Also “There were a lot of gods. Gods always come in handy, they justify almost anything.” And probably my favorite of Margaret Atwood’s: “People cry at weddings for the same reason they cry at happy endings: because they so desperately want to believe in something they know is not credible.”

Because I don’t get to brag about this a lot, this is my fancy signed copy of The Handmaid’s Tale. Seethe with envy, reader(s).

Day 14 Image

Blogging 101, Writing

Writing 101: The Fashion Blog You Never Knew You Needed

I can’t pretend I’m even a little bit interested in the prompt for today (and by today I mean Wednesday). One of the suggestions: a series of vignettes connected by drinking your signature drink. This would be easier if my signature drink wasn’t tea and sadness. And by that, of course, I mean tea brewed with my tears and sweat. (Ugh, I’ll stop, I promise. I don’t want to be responsible for you being unable to drink another cup of tea again.)

So let’s talk about what I’ve been doing with my thrilling weekend. Today’s task (besides getting caught up with blogging, cooking, and watching Filth): sorting out my closet/making room for my nice new professional wardrobe (ha).

Honestly, I really, really like throwing things away. I have too much stuff, largely comprised of books, kitchen gadgets (you will pry my brûlée torch from my cold, dead fingers), and clothing. I also have a large collection of Beanie Babies in the basement that I was completely ready to donate, but my mom didn’t want to get rid of them (you’re part of the problem, Mom).

Since I know this sounds like the most fun ever, let’s play a game where you guess if I kept that piece of clothing, threw it away, or denied all knowledge of its existence (as in went back into old photos and edited it out, Stalin-style). Except not really a game because I’ll tell you immediately what decision I made. It’ll be more like I invited you over and told you we’d have a fun afternoon, but instead you got stuck with me interrogating you about my wardrobe decisions (and then completely disregarding everything you suggest).

We’ll start with an easy one:

20150927_153836
Keep. Obviously.
Outfit I wore for the freshman dance in high school. Throw away. Why do I even have this still?
Outfit I wore for the freshman dance in high school. Throw away. Why do I even have this still?
This one was hard because the fish are so cute, but the shirt is a bit on the short side. Throw away.
This one was hard because the fish are so cute, but the shirt is a bit on the short side. Throw away.
Felt weird about throwing away since I'll be working for my alma mater in a few short days (4!). Keep even though I have never in my life worn spirit wear except when gardening/cleaning. As my mom helpfully observed,
Felt weird about throwing away since I’ll be working for my alma mater in a few short days (4!). Keep even though I have never in my life worn spirit wear except when gardening/cleaning. As my mom helpfully observed, “You could wear it when you’re outside. Welllllll, you’re never outside, are you?” Thanks, Mom.
20150927_154457
I have no recollection of ever wearing (or buying) this. Why on earth do I have anything with such a large bow in my wardrobe? Throw away. Really not a bow kind of person.
Much as it pains me, throw away. Those owls are adorable, but this shirt is much too short.
Much as it pains me, throw away. Those owls are adorable, but this shirt is much too short.
Keep. Duh.
Keep. Duh.
Bertha Mason passed judgment on this one, so throw away.
Bertha Mason passed judgment on this one, so throw away. “I call this a statement piece. It makes the statement ‘I have no taste in fashion.'”

How did you do?  And, more importantly, how did I do?  In 10 years am I going to look back and think my life could’ve been completely different if only I’d kept that dress with the giant ass bow?

Blogging University, Writing

Writing 101: Word Count

Let’s talk about being clear and concise in writing.  Yeah, not my strong suit.  I have a lot to say, guys, and you should be honored that you have the privilege of listening to my opinion on such a regular basis.

That being said, my posts are (usually) under 1,000 words, so I do spare you the entirety of my stream-of-consciousness.  I’m challenging myself to make this post under 100 words (which I’ve already gone over).  150 then.

This is flash creative non-fiction, you guys.  Under 50 words.  Prepare to be blown away.

Things I did to avoid this blogging assignment: took a walk. Cleaned the cat litter. Went shopping for more cat litter. Made a casserole. Threw away old copies of National Geographic. Moved heavy pieces of art into the basement. Now there’s nothing left but to write.  Or wash dishes.

Blogging University, Writing

Writing 101: My Fabulous Life

Fuck it, guys. I’m just barely hanging on in terms of Writing 101. Instead of motivating each other to keep going, Christa and I have fallen into a black hole of negativity that we just keep pulling each other further into. I’m cool with that—it’s what we do.

“What do you do when you’re not writing?” is the question I’m addressing. Which I interpret as “What did you do today?” in a way that isn’t just polite—you really want to know every minute detail of what I did today.  Here it is, guys.  My fabulous life:

After I woke up, I found 2 lip balms under my night stand. I decided today was going to be a good day since I’ve gone from known locations of 0 to 2 (of 4) lip balms, BERTHA MASON.

Obviously the first thing I did with intent was make a cup of tea. Day will be off to a bad start without a cup of tea. This is approx. 7:30 am, btw. I can’t sleep in anymore, which is pretty upsetting when you consider how much I love sleep. I sat around for a while trying to convince myself to work on this post. Didn’t happen.

After about 2 hours of debating if I should do something more productive with my morning, I made a hash brown casserole. Then I remembered how terrible I am at waiting and ate pumpkin waffles with apple cider syrup for breakfast instead. (That casserole took AN HOUR to cook, you guys. It was really good and contained way more cheese than any other ingredient, but AN HOUR.)

I decided to take my (brisk) walk for the day after breakfast. Bertha Mason helped with resistance training by sitting on my leg as I stretched.

If anyone doubts my commitment to the care of my sweaters, I hand washed not one, but TWO sweaters. And by that I mean I kind of swirled them around in the bathroom sink with some laundry detergent and then let them sit for a few minutes. They’re clean now, right? Super fucking clean.

At this point I kind of forgot I was working this afternoon, so I had to run around simultaneously putting away groceries, finding business casual-y clothes to wear, and speed eating lunch (a little bit of hash brown casserole and a little bit of lo mein. It was fusion cuisine).  Bertha Mason once again offered her assistance by running after me and trying to bite my ankles.

After work, my mom and I made veggie soup with grilled brie, turkey, and cranberry sandwiches. Have I mentioned I’m ready for Thanksgiving food? Because I am.

Since then, I’ve been working on this post and drinking a lot of tea. My goal is to keep blogging…but you know me too well to believe that’s going to happen. I’ll probably be watching Star Trek: TOS and eating cheesecake.  What I feel you should take away from all this is that, on a typical day, I eat a lot of cheese, drink a lot of tea, watch a bit of sci-fi, and lose some blood to Bertha Mason.  If it’s a good day.

Blogging University, Writing

Writing 101: No

Okay, guys.  Here’s the deal.

Writing 101 seemed like a really good idea at the time…but I forgot how much I hate other people telling me what to write/how to spend my free time.

Write an open letter to someone?  Write a life update in the form of a coffee date???  Coffee date is the lowest form of dating, is it not?  It says, essentially, “I want to avoid any confusion about who’s paying for what and completely dodge the possibility of having to pay for a fancy dinner.  Also I want to be able to get the fuck out and not have to wait for the check in case things go horribly, horribly wrong.”

Even if this is a casual coffee meet-up…I’m sorry, I’d rather be watching Netflix.

So I’ll play along and update you on my life, but I’m not pretending I’m anywhere besides sprawled on the couch with my kitten Bertha Mason.

What’s going on?  Not much, just freaking out about starting a new job in less than 2 weeks.  You know, going from 3 jobs in the past year (simultaneously for a much longer period than I would’ve liked) to one full-time university library job. I’ll be a supervisor for the first time ever, and it makes me want to run away and hide.

When good things happen to you, do you immediately wonder how long it will take for you to utterly fuck everything up? Do you suspect that someone must have been blackmailed to offer you this position and feel you are really not worthy? I’m positive this is a feeling everyone gets, but I’m equally confident that feeling like the most irrational/neurotic human being ever goes hand in hand with this state of mind.

On the bright side, I got this excellent piece of jewelry that I’m never taking off.

Day 10 Image

Collaborative Blogging, Film Reviews

If I Stay (Please Don’t)

Christa and I have time to kill at the moment (always a dangerous thing), so we’ve decided to make the next couple of weeks about whatever we want them to be. To borrow (steal) from Christa, it’s Free For All Fortnight, aka Blog Free Or Die Hard, aka I must always have 1,000 alternate titles for everything we do. Christa’s kicking off this limited edition of the collab with If I Stay. Check out her review here.

The Film:

If I Stay

Where to Watch:

Netflix (US)

The Premise:

According to Netflix, “A promising cellist. A tragic car crash. A choice to pursue her dreams or to follow the white light that beckons.”

The Uncondensed Version:

I don’t think there’s any way to hold back my annoyance with this film, so let’s just be up front about it, shall we?

One of the first things our protagonist/narrator says is “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” John Lennon’s biggest regret was that he ever uttered those words. Our quote/narration/every damn thing about this movie sets up the choice Mia will have to make about (spoiler alert) whether to live or die (that can’t seriously be a spoiler, though, right? Even if you never saw any of the promos for this film, surely you can guess this movie is about more than whether Mia should stay at a party or go home and watch Netflix [always choose Netflix, Mia]).

A teenage girl in a blonde wig and leopard print outfit smiles at a boy at a party.
It might be fun to dress as Debbie Harry for a Halloween party, but it’s not as fun as Netflix.

The structure of the film alternates between the life Mia had before the car accident that leaves her in a coma and the aftermath that determines whether she decides to live.

Let’s take a look at reasons Mia has to live:

  1. Adoring family, made up of former punk rocker parents, little brother, grandparents, and various punk friends of Mia’s parents
  2. Love of the cello, classical music, and possible Juilliard acceptance
  3. Rocker boyfriend, Adam, who is, according to Mia, soooooooooooooooooooooooo out of her league

And reasons to give up:

  1. Family decimated by car crash
  2. Even if accepted to Juilliard, most likely career path is performing on subway cars
  3. Adam = douche

I’m sorry, but we have to talk about Adam. Partly because he’s vitally important to the plot but mostly because I just fucking hate him. Adam takes an interest in Mia even though she’s a quiet cellist and he’s the lead singer/guitarist of a (high school) rock band and “already was somebody.”

So Adam and Mia date and fall in love and have sex in a shed, which looks way more comfortable/romantic than it would be in real life. Adam is so smooth and utters such classic lines as “The you you are now is the same you I’m in love with.” (WHAT?) However, obstacles abound when Adam’s rock career takes off and he’s…still dating a high school student. (They can make it work, you might think optimistically. CLING TO YOUR FANTASIES, YOU NAÏVE FOOL.) Meanwhile, Mia keeps her Juilliard audition to herself as acceptance to the school would put 3,000 miles between the two. When Adam hears about the audition, he handles it really well by agreeing to a sudden week-long tour. Apparently he wants to be a rock star without ever having to leave Portland. Dude, have you never heard of concert tours? Fuck this guy, Mia. This is a toxic relationship if he can’t be happy for your successes.

A teen boy stands by a girl's open locker, which is decorated with multiple stickers that read "I Heart Yo Yo Ma."
Also doesn’t know who Yo-Yo Ma is. Not the best sign.

Since he’s manipulative as fuck and can’t handle Mia having her own autonomy, Adam breaks up with her and says they can’t do long-distance because it’s like dating a ghost. Honestly, a movie about a long-distance relationship with an actual ghost would’ve been much more interesting than this film.

So Mia and Adam do this aggravating on-again/off-again thing forever. The first time they make up, Adam apologizes by putting up images in her room of the ceiling where she’ll be doing her Juilliard audition WITHOUT HER KNOWLEDGE OR PERMISSION. He also gives her a cello/guitar bracelet and rather condescendingly asks “Do you get it?”

NO, ADAM, FUCKING EXPLAIN IT TO ME.

The Critique:

This is reasonably spoiler-y, but IDGAF. If you still want to watch this movie after reading my review and Christa’s review, I feel sorry for you. Based on the structure of this film, I couldn’t help thinking that Mia had to basically trade almost every member of her family to be with Adam. Mia needs a t-shirt that reads “My entire family died in a car crash, and all I got was this stupid boyfriend.” The worst part is I didn’t even care about Mia and her suffering because everyone in this film was so bland. I got a teensy bit emotional during a scene between Mia and her crusty grandfather (played by Stacy Keach?!?!). All other bits of this movie made me feel I have a heart of stone.

An older man driving a car talks to his granddaughter.
Likes: plaid shirts. Dislikes: punk music, feelings.

Basically every 10 mins I thought, “Is this over yet?” and/or “Why am I not watching Save the Last Dance?” or “Why isn’t Save the Last Dance on Netflix???” Also about a high school girl trying to get in to Juilliard while dating a guy whose musical tastes are considered too mainstream. However, Sean Patrick Thomas was super adorable and supportive, unlike stupid Adam.

One positive thing about this film: how ridiculously composed Chloë Grace Moretz is. She was maybe 16 or 17 during the filming of this movie but brings a maturity to the role that I’m not 100% sure I have.

The Rating:

Small Pink PantherSmall Pink Panther 2/5 Pink Panther Heads

Tempted to go 1/5, but the last film I can remember giving that rating to was Gummo, and at least no cats died in the events of this film.

I feel watching We Are the Best! again would have been more entertaining and true to the spirit of punk.

See if Christa’s rage matches my own here!

EDIT: GUYS, THERE WAS A SAVE THE LAST DANCE 2(?!?!?!?!). I suppose they couldn’t retroactively change the original film’s title to Save the Penultimate Dance.

Blogging University, Writing

Writing 101: Poor Tagging Decisions

Dear Internet Creep with a Slipper Fetish,

I do acknowledge that I have failed to consider the negative consequences of some of my tags on this blog.  Number of times I’ve used the tags “lesbians,” “Nazis,” “gross,” “Masters of Sex,” and “creepy old men”?  Mistake.  Big mistake.

However, I really don’t think I could’ve foreseen the “slippers” tag going so horribly wrong.  I used that particular tag for a photo of my fuzzy blue slippers (you can’t even see my ankles) without thinking about you and the other creeps of the internet.

It’s a strange world we live in when you search for “slippers fetish out” and get my blog as one of your results.  Sorry to disappoint you, but you’re not going to find porn on this blog. I admit I am a bit more cautious when tagging my posts now.  Creeps of the internet, I don’t want you here any more than I’m sure you want to be here.

I suppose you might argue that if I don’t want creeps to visit my blog, I could always just stop blogging because that’s probably the kind of person you are.  Fuck it, though, right?  I could post a picture of my elbow and some weird dude would get turned on.  If I avoided doing something every time someone made me uncomfortable, I would never leave the house again (it’s so tempting, isn’t it?).  There’s no way I’m going to stop posting pictures of my slippers/elbows/whatnot.  I have pretty sexy elbows, honestly.

I hope you find the fuzziest slippers in existence and are very happy with them.

Best wishes,

Jillian

P.S. Fellow bloggers, what are the weirdest search terms that have brought people to your blog? The librarian in me loves this kind of shit.

Blogging University, Writing

Writing 101: Not So Great at This Inspirational Quote Thing

Let’s talk books a little. I am slightly ashamed that, based on the frequency of book discussions on this blog, I read rarely to never. As a librarian, I do read way less than I feel I should. Like now. I could be reading right now, but I’m probably going to write this blog post, get my shit together for tomorrow, and sleep. If you want to give me a break, I’m recovering from grad school (that’s a shameful lie…my program ended almost a year and a half ago [YIKES]).

I just started reading Lidia Yuknavitch’s The Small Backs of Children. Fine, it was 2 weeks ago and I’ve only read 50 pages. I decided to pick up the novel after reading her short story “Woven,” which is so beautiful and sad. The quote I want to talk about in this post is from that story.

“Now, when someone hurts me, I remember that they are only living the terms of their own fictions—sometimes desperately—so their selves don’t unravel.”  —Lidia Yuknavitch, “Woven”

I think that’s a sucker punch to the gut kind of quote. Can you appreciate why it’s taking me so long to get through her novel?

Let’s keep it honest: I’m not a very forgiving person. People suck, don’t they? But I think this line of Yuknavitch’s is brave and painful and empathetic. It hurts to feel like you’re unravelling and that you can’t do anything to stop it. When there’s nothing else you can do, it becomes so important to make sure you aren’t vulnerable to other people realizing what a shit show you are and how easily they could knock you over if they wanted to. That’s when you hurt other people so they don’t hurt you first.

Like the narrator, I try to remember other people aren’t as in control as they might like to think when people get pissed at me because I don’t know what they mean or some asshole cuts me off or my neighbor acts like a dick (I’m never letting that go).

I feel I could’ve gone more inspiring with this post. Enjoy this pretty picture of the sky at night from Unsplash?

Day 7 Image