Based off of this web gem if you live under an inter-rock.
I saw the movie on Imax, which is really the only way to see it.
I apparently went to the Special Needs showing, however, because the kid next to me, who engaged me in conversation for a good 15 minutes, kept referring to the fifth book as the “Horror of the Phoenix,” with no irony because he is 13 and probably thinks that “irony” is a cartoon mineral supplement. (GET IT?! O RLY?!)
Then, a girl wearing Harry Potter glasses who was only a bit younger than me had a conversation with me for about 10 minutes regardless of the fact that A) we were five rows apart, B) we were surrounded by people who probably wanted to have their own conversations, C) She had to stand to yell over the heads of everyone else and D) I clearly had my “Yes, yes, very interesting…. shhhhhhhh” face on. I don’t wear my hilarious Harry Potter-themed shirts for your benefits, nerds. I wear them for quiet admiration. Quiet.
I don’t care if you went to a party once that had a room that looked like the Great Hall with candles hung from the ceiling on monofilament.
Stupidest thing I’ve said in the past couple of days #4354:
Mom: Has your laptop arrived yet?
Me: NO! It’s been almost 10 days, and trust me, I had a tooth to pick with the USPS.
Mom: …Do you mean “bone”?
Me: Wait, what did I say?
Mom: You said “a tooth to pick.” Like a “toothpick.”
I really think I’m getting stupider by the minute.
But in other ways, LA sort of allows me to be me.
I’ve always sang musicals at the top of my lungs in my car, and I never really minded if people saw me doing it. But out here, it’s kind of normal. Passing motorists will probably just think I’m some Acting Student.
I also didn’t feel like changing out of my snowflake pajama pants to go to Barnes and Noble, so I didn’t. Because this is LA. Passing mall goers will probably just think I’m one of those crazy outfit wearers.
Part of the reason I’ve always wanted to live out here is that when I was 15, I came out to visit a friend, and I saw a woman with bright pink hair wearing an outfit entirely made of driving maps and tap shoes. “This is where I want to live,” I exclaimed, and I almost saw a tear form in a passing driver-by shooter’s eye.
Then, the other day, I wanted to take Scamp to Carl’s Jr. to get a 99-cent spicy chicken sandwich. And you know what? I did. And he loved it. I might have scared the drive-through guy, but he didn’t speak English, which is a shame, because I was going to tell him deadpan that the chili cheese fries were for Scamp. Hah! And little would he know I was only half-joking!
So full of life, this city!