Alright. For the record, Disney (the all-powerful entity, not the man), Mulan and Pocahontas are not princesses. Nor will they ever be. Cinderella sort of became one, as did Belle (of Beauty and the Beast), but really, of the “Disney Princesses,” only Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, and sort of The Little Mermaid (Ariel) were original, bona fide princesses. So basically, all the ones that don’t actually have names. (Okay, so The Little Mermaid had a name. But if I’d just said “Ariel,” would anyone know what I was talking about?) Pocahontas was a chief’s daughter, but that doesn’t make her a “princess” per se. That just makes her a chief’s daughter. And Mulan---much as I like and admire Mulan---was not a princess. Not a chief’s daughter. Not anything more spectacular than a cross-dressing warrior woman. Not a princess. (And if it were a true story, she wouldn’t even have been cute. She would’ve been totally butch. Just like the real GI Jane wouldn’t bear the slightest resemblance to Demi Moore.)

So I woke up this morning at around 0900, thanks to a 5-hour nap yesterday, and then Sarah left to go spend the day with Caleb, and I just never left her room. She won’t be coming back tonight, either. She’s going to spend the night with Caleb. And I just might stay in her room. I finished off the M&M’s I’d left here forever ago, and I stole some Spaghettio’s from Kelli, and then Dane brought me some Chipotle (I don’t really like most Chipotle food, but the tacos are okay), and he also brought me some cookies, and I was okay until halfway through a cookie (Jamie and Vicki made them; I was going to help but I forgot). Now I feel sick. Big cookies. Big rich chocolate chip cookies. Bastard cookies; now I feel sick and fat. That’s probably got just as much to do with not leaving this room all day (except for about 10 minutes to watch part of Team America, which is filth that I’ve already seen too many times and I didn’t leave the building, just walked down the hall) even though I had every intention of going for a shirtless run. Would’ve been a nice day for it, too.

But no, I started last night when Sarah left, watching Hook, Jimmy Neutron, Mulan II, Notting Hill, Robin Hood: Princess of Thieves (what’s funny is that they give Keira Knightley Phantom Menace credits on the cover; no one even knows she was in that movie), Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and Titanic. (I’m still watching Titanic; it lost my interest a long time ago. I may be heartless.) I gained respect for Leonardo DiCaprio after watching Man in the Iron Mask; I thought he portrayed two different men quite well. But watching this movie, I remember why there was so much room for gain.

Lately I always feel like I have really bad breath, like an old lady. This has convinced me to eat fewer vegetables. I don’t know why. Don’t ask. It just seems to me that blaming vegetables is the appropriate thing to do. Didn’t I hear somewhere that vegetarians have bad breath? But having just eaten Chipotle food, I think maybe that’s got something to do with it. Maybe Chipotlerians have bad breath, too. Yucky. Feel like something died and is rotting in the back of my throat. I hope someone tells me if I actually have paint-peelingly bad breath.

Bleah; floating corpses, falling china, terrible dialogue . . . neh. I guess that’s a realistic portrayal, huh? Real-life isn’t scripted, and I don’t think this movie was, either. But it’s too light. I’ve been on the ocean at night, and unless it’s dawn or dusk, you can’t see the horizon like that. You can’t see anything; an occasional whitecap, a glimmer . . . but it’s dark. Anyway, all in all, I’m not remarkably impressed with this movie. Those two should’ve been dead a long time ago. There’s more than dumb luck keeping Jack and Rose alive; oh yes, I see the hand of a filmmaker in this. Did anyone see the old Titanic? The one with the mom and the dad and the illegitimate son . . . ? I don’t know anyone who was in it, or at least, I didn’t last time I saw it, which had to have been at least eight years ago.

I suddenly find myself singing---through a rather complex series of thoughts connected to “What would it have been like to have a love affair on the Titanic?”---a song from White Christmas. “ . . . My one love affair didn’t get anywhere from the start; To send me a Joe who had winter and snow in his heart wasn’t smart. Oh Love, you didn’t do right by me . . . ” Tis true fact; my one love affair didn’t get anywhere from the start, although it had nothing to do with Joe or winter. Just an inconvenient set of circumstances.

Now, when I say “love affair,” I don’t mean I was only involved in one romance. As I’ve said, I’ve had three boyfriends, two of whom are now married. And I’m not talking about any of them. “Boyfriends” are not “love affairs.” “Love affairs” are people other than the people that people know you’re with. “Love affairs” are way more fun than boyfriends. I’m going to make a recommendation that you, whoever you are, always keep your real love secret. It’s more fun. Fall in love all you want, but don’t hold hands in public, around people you know. Run away to the dark corners, to the cities where you’re strangers to everyone, and hold hands there. Kiss on those street corners and back alleys. (Jack’s dead, Rose; quit shaking him.) Whisper your “I love you’s”; write them in code, in sweet secret letters; don’t tattoo names on you, write Me + You and then watch it burn snuggled up by a secret fire when everyone thinks that she’s in New York and he’s in L.A..

Pardon my sentimentality; I’ve never done those things. Like I said, my one love affair didn’t get anywhere from the start. It was never really intended to. It was never actually intended to happen at all, and while I don’t regret it, I probably should. It’ll haunt the rest of my life. Or enrich it. I don’t know; I’m not there yet. Funny; I still lie about it. I still say it never happened; that I had three boyfriends and a bunch of first dates and that’s all. (Most of the first dates sucked. Maybe I’ll tell those stories someday too; Andy and Troy and Aaron and Dale . . . maybe not. Some of them might read this. Andy, my date with you didn’t suck, though I was afraid I bored you. Troy, you were the most amusing date I ever went on. Aaron, you suck. I hope you’re married to someone as psychotic as you are. Dale . . . ah, Dale . . . )

Oh lord! She could’ve at least SHOWN him the diamond before chucking it into the ocean. That’s craziness. Oh, and this is the part where she dies in her bed, eh? She’s done everything she needed to do, as shown by the pictures by her little berth; the straddle-riding in front of the roller coaster, the flying, etc. . . . Old people crack me up, but I’m never going to be one. Sort of like drunk people. (As in, I’m sure I’ll do it eventually, but I won’t be happy about it. Old, drunk, married, pregnant, obese, wrong . . . things I have no intention of being but probably will be at some point. Not in that order.)

Of course . . . I never had any intention of being in love, either. I don’t like being in love. I don’t like feeling owned. I don’t like feeling like I’m at the mercy of anyone else. I don’t even like having close friends, for that reason. I don’t like feeling obligated to anyone. I like feeling badassedly independent. (My computer tells me that “badassedly” is not a word. Or at least that it’s spelled wrong. Byte me, computer. Oh, it’s telling me that I meant to write “abashedly,” which, I assure you, was not my intent.)

So I finished Titanic and now I’m watching some Tarzan movie, because men who play Tarzan are hot, and so is Brendan Fraser, who played George of the Jungle, and was the hottest jungle man ever. And funniest, as well. I don’t like the chick they have playing Jane in this movie, who, coincidentally, is named Jane in real life, as well. I like the character, and she doesn’t seem slutty, which is good, but she’s not especially attractive, either. (Oh, evidently lions understand apespeak. Cool. Remind me to “ooh-ooh” at a lion the next time I need a favor from one. It works for Tarzan.) Well, she’s pretty enough when she smiles, I guess. Actually, she looks like Charlie. That’s . . . special. I like Charlie okay, but she’s not a close friend of mine. Which reminds me that oh shit I never made an appearance at Ann’s party.

I went to get a pedicure with Sarah, and that took until about noon, and then we went and ate, and then we went to the Del Monte Center, and by then I was falling asleep standing up, so we just came straight back and I fell asleep in Sarah’s room. I opened my eyes once and she was trying on her dress with some new shoes she got, and I said, “That looks nice,” and then fell asleep again. And then I woke up and it was 2100, and I remembered that she’d said she had to go to Caleb’s at some point, for “a little while,” and I debated whether or not I should wake her up. So I woke her up.

Dane asks if I stay in this room in a weird, canine way of waiting for Sarah to come back. No. I spent so much time in this room once upon a time that I tend to forget it’s Sarah’s room. It’s like mine. I don’t even really notice anymore that Sarah’s supposed to be in it. What is in it is a TV, and Kelli’s large rack. Of DVDs. And so I can spend all day here without even really noticing what’s going on. I also set up my computer on an ironing board in front of the TV last night, with a chair and my camera and the Playstation controller and all my stuff . . . I didn’t feel like “tearing down” my setup. (Yes, ironing board. Is that a problem? It’s like a portable table, just the right width for my computer. Maybe a little tippy . . . Someday, I’ll have to get me an ironing board . . . and maybe an iron to go with it.)

Damn. I shoulda gone running. I should be doing push-ups, sit-ups, squats, jumping jacks, high kicks, Tae Bo, yoga . . . but I’m not. Teehee. I’m vegging, and I like it. So there. Well, okay. I don’t really like it. I feel like I’m getting fat this weekend, and I’m watching this super-fit Tarzan run around and swing around and pull himself around and I’m just getting round.

I had a dream once that I got shot in the head. It was the most bizarre thing ever; I dreamt about gang wars and I was in one and some man killed some of my friends. So in the middle of the night, I snuck up behind him with a couple of knives and stabbed him, over and over again, all over his upper body. Front and back, in the ribs, and he just wouldn’t die. But he finally did, and I went into the bathroom to wash the blood off my knives. I was sick of it all, sick of the death and the killing and the senselessness. So when a few of his friends came in and said they were going to kill me, I didn’t even look up. “Do it, then,” I said, keeping my head bowed, watching the blood run off the blades and down the drain. And then I heard the gunshot, and felt the bullet sting the top of my skull and punch through to my brain, and then I was falling backwards, into one of the stalls, and people were grabbing at my arms, trying to hold me up, and I felt the blood run down my forehead, splitting at the bridge of my nose to run down my face like twin trails of tears, and then everything started fading to black and then I realized that I was awake, lying in bed, staring at the dark. They say that dying in your dreams is a bad sign, but that was a few months ago and I’m still alive, so maybe I woke up before I was actually dead.

Have I ever mentioned that I’m going to take over for Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft someday? It’s the only reason my hair’s so long. (Well, that’s a lie. There are a couple of reasons. But that’s the main one.) I had this discussion once with someone who said, “You can’t do that.” I said, “Why not?” “Well,” they said, “the only reason I watch Tomb Raider is to stare at Angelina Jolie’s ass. If I stare at your ass, you’ll beat the shit out of me.” “That’s true,” was really all I had to say. “But,” I added, “if I’m in a movie, I’m pretty sure you’re allowed.” I don’t have a very nice ass, though. Oh well. It wouldn’t really matter, I think. (I also don’t have Angelina Jolie’s boobs. For which I am quite grateful.)

Jessica texted me to say she got Dane a graple. (Grapple? Grape-ple? Dane spells it grapple, Jessica graple, and me grape-ple. An apple soaked in grape juice until it tastes like a grape. Sounds gross to me, but whatever . . . ) Yay; Tarzan’s over. That was a terrible movie. Now what? Hmm . . . what else here haven’t I seen?