You know what I think? I think most people think that staring is rude, but if you're fat, wearing makeup, ugly, Asian, old, or wearing sunnies, it's somehow okay.
You know what I think? I think it's hypocritical when people say 'don't parade around your English prize, it might make other people feel bad', but yet they let race winners and sports prize winners parade around their flashy trophies in my face. I mean, and they were worried that my dinky little medallion would make them cry.
You know what I think? I think it's funny when people realize you're Asian, or an academic, they immediately talk to you as if you're disabled.
You know what I think? I think that movies make a big mistake of making it like boys like weird girls. I mean, I am living proof that that is not true.
You know what I think? I think people think that I made some illicit deal with a criminal gang to gain my talents, instead of being born with them like they would assume if I had other gifts.
You know what I think? Justin Bieber and all the rest always squint their eyes a little when they're 'smouldering'. So, really, all Asians are like, permanently sexy, 100% of the time.
You know what I think? I think that the best song in the world is Wavin' Flag. Airplanes is a very close second.
You know what I think? I think I live for life.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Just a thing...
So, this kinda connects with my most recent posts about the Young Artist for Haiti and learning French.
So I was listening to the Wavin' Flag Haiti Remix, and I was just getting to the French part (this being Canadian) when I realized that it actually sounds pretty funny.
The first French phrase is meant to be 'au nom de la survie' (in the name of survival) but it honestly sounds like 'nom de la souris' which is 'name of the mouse'.
If you know French, or bad French, as I do, listen to it. See if you agree with me.
So I was listening to the Wavin' Flag Haiti Remix, and I was just getting to the French part (this being Canadian) when I realized that it actually sounds pretty funny.
The first French phrase is meant to be 'au nom de la survie' (in the name of survival) but it honestly sounds like 'nom de la souris' which is 'name of the mouse'.
If you know French, or bad French, as I do, listen to it. See if you agree with me.
Learning French
Mood:
Listening to: Wavin' Flag Haiti Remix by the Young Artists for Haiti
Hungry for: apple pie
Bella says: 'zzz'
Anyone who knows anything about me knows that I am astronomically useless at learning foreign languages.
Part of it is that my passionate, slightly obessively creepy love of the English language makes it hard for me to grasp foreign alphabets and sentence structures, part of it I admit is pure laziness and lack of talent, but a big part of it is a long string of rather useless teachers and broken learning programmes.
I started in the rather weak Australian public schools' LOTE program at the age of seven, a year younger than usual as a year two student in a split 2/3 class, too keep me out of trouble, I suppose, because I was wreaking havoc in the lessons I was beyond and my behaviour was even worse in the subjects I was struggling in. The language of choice was German, for some unknown reason - as a seven year old, I had never met a German or a German-speaker in my life, despite having a German cousin. German took place in a seperate classroom then the homeroom where we had the majority of our lessons, in the new demountables. I have fond memories of struggling to carry my plastic chair with my books and pencils perched precariously in the seat about 100 metres from my classroom to the LOTE demountable, tripping over and bashing my knees.
My teacher also taught Science and Health, for some unfathomable reason, and she could also speak French. Lack of focus prevented me from learning any German aside from 'Hallo', 'Guten Morgen', 'Guten Nacht', 'Auf Wiederzehn' and 'Ich bin sieben jahre alt', as well as a few broken verses of Schnappi das Kleine Krokodil or however the Germans spell crocodile and this rather silly nursery rhyme:
Ich bin Ich und
Du bist Du,
Ich bin ______ wehre bist du?
(I am me and you are you, I am ______ who are you?)
which got rather annoying when you chanted it three million times in one go, getting progressively faster and higher-pitched.
German lasted from the ages of seven to ten, because when I was eleven we made the swap to French, because for some inexplicable reason they decided that 'lower school' (years three to five) should learn German and 'upper school' (years six and seven) should learn French, as if they expected us to learn an entire language in two years based on biweekly lessons. So, in year six, we started learning French.
French for me was a lot more enjoyable. There was a lot less hacking and gacking or saliva flying in French. French was an elegant language, a seductive, provocative language that was exciting and new to us, newly minted adolescents. It was also bloody hard to learn.
My teacher, who started out quite jolly and nice, got increasingly more frazzled and short-tempered as each year passed under her tutelage. At the end of year six, she quit her job and left the school.
By then it became increasingly obvious that English and French were not the languages of choice in the world, but Mandarin Chinese. So the school employed a volunteer teacher's aide from Christmas Island to teach our mainly-white classes Chinese.
Let me tell you - Chinese is not an easy language for children who have spoken English all their life to learn. We're used to alphabets, not squiggles and wiggles and obscure ancient symbolism. We're not used to having to memorize 5000 characters - after all, in English, you only have to know the nine basic numbers and the 26 letters of the alphabet to get around the modern world. In English you can sound things out, guess, and there's a good chance you'll get the spelling roughly right. In Chinese, there is no alphabet. There is no guessing. It's just a shitload of memorizing.
Our lives weren't made any easier by our teacher, who to us, seemed to be permanently stuck in Stone Age China, despite being a Christmas Islander. After explaining to us in Pidgin English that her name was Mrs Foo but if we were to address her in Chinese we had to call her by her maiden name, so she would be 'ling lao shi' (a concept which I understood, growing up in an Asian family where married women kept their maiden names), we were still all confused, and ended up calling her 'Mrs foo ling lao shi', which eventually morphed into the easier 'Mrs Tofu'. Tofu, for white kids, described Mrs Foo/Ling Lao Shi perfectly - an unremarkably hopeless lump of goo.
Mrs Foo tried valiantly to teach us her language, but her attempts were in vain - the white kids mocked her mercilessly with her efforts to be 'cool' and her attempts to discipline us, and the Chinese kids mocked her elementary Chinese, which she used literally, word for word, ignoring rather comically some of the sayings and anologies common in the Chinese language. In the end, none of us could say more than 'ni hao ma' - which was how much Chinese we knew to begin with. I was considered one of the top students because I knew one other word - my Chinese name, Quan Zhi Xiu.
So after six years of a very motly LOTE education, I, along with the majority of the graduating class, remained stubbornly nonolingual. At least I was part of an alarmingly small percentage of schoolkids that can boast of a satisfactory grasp of our mother tongue, English. But ass horrible as we were to the teachers, I still don't think we are entirely to blame. I mean, when the only people who can speak another language are those taught outside the school by foreign parents, then there's obviously something wrong with the system. I mean, English schools teach French, and a larger majority of Brits know school French than Aussie kids know school anything.
I've always wanted to learn French. The exoticness that struck me as an eleven year old never fully left me, but more importantly, I knew that French would be a very useful language to learn - much more useful, it seemedto me, than Chinese, as I was intent on sticking to the Western World.
French in year eight was a hopeless story, with an Australian bloke with the same mental capacity as dear Mrs Foo and a horrible grasp of the delicacy of the French language, as well as the basic pronunciation. Ironically, this year is slightly better under the instruction of a slightly psychotic Italian teacher, but there was still the problem of being taught one thing and then the test being on something completely different, with confusing instructions written by Teacher Number One, as we will call him.
I still haven't given up on learning French. Perhaps I will learn it myself one day, pick it up, as I have picked up, rather incompetently, but still, I have taught myself basic html. Perhaps.
Until then, Auf Wiederzehn. Jai zian. Au revoir.
Listening to: Wavin' Flag Haiti Remix by the Young Artists for Haiti
Hungry for: apple pie
Bella says: 'zzz'
Anyone who knows anything about me knows that I am astronomically useless at learning foreign languages.
Part of it is that my passionate, slightly obessively creepy love of the English language makes it hard for me to grasp foreign alphabets and sentence structures, part of it I admit is pure laziness and lack of talent, but a big part of it is a long string of rather useless teachers and broken learning programmes.
I started in the rather weak Australian public schools' LOTE program at the age of seven, a year younger than usual as a year two student in a split 2/3 class, too keep me out of trouble, I suppose, because I was wreaking havoc in the lessons I was beyond and my behaviour was even worse in the subjects I was struggling in. The language of choice was German, for some unknown reason - as a seven year old, I had never met a German or a German-speaker in my life, despite having a German cousin. German took place in a seperate classroom then the homeroom where we had the majority of our lessons, in the new demountables. I have fond memories of struggling to carry my plastic chair with my books and pencils perched precariously in the seat about 100 metres from my classroom to the LOTE demountable, tripping over and bashing my knees.
My teacher also taught Science and Health, for some unfathomable reason, and she could also speak French. Lack of focus prevented me from learning any German aside from 'Hallo', 'Guten Morgen', 'Guten Nacht', 'Auf Wiederzehn' and 'Ich bin sieben jahre alt', as well as a few broken verses of Schnappi das Kleine Krokodil or however the Germans spell crocodile and this rather silly nursery rhyme:
Ich bin Ich und
Du bist Du,
Ich bin ______ wehre bist du?
(I am me and you are you, I am ______ who are you?)
which got rather annoying when you chanted it three million times in one go, getting progressively faster and higher-pitched.
German lasted from the ages of seven to ten, because when I was eleven we made the swap to French, because for some inexplicable reason they decided that 'lower school' (years three to five) should learn German and 'upper school' (years six and seven) should learn French, as if they expected us to learn an entire language in two years based on biweekly lessons. So, in year six, we started learning French.
French for me was a lot more enjoyable. There was a lot less hacking and gacking or saliva flying in French. French was an elegant language, a seductive, provocative language that was exciting and new to us, newly minted adolescents. It was also bloody hard to learn.
My teacher, who started out quite jolly and nice, got increasingly more frazzled and short-tempered as each year passed under her tutelage. At the end of year six, she quit her job and left the school.
By then it became increasingly obvious that English and French were not the languages of choice in the world, but Mandarin Chinese. So the school employed a volunteer teacher's aide from Christmas Island to teach our mainly-white classes Chinese.
Let me tell you - Chinese is not an easy language for children who have spoken English all their life to learn. We're used to alphabets, not squiggles and wiggles and obscure ancient symbolism. We're not used to having to memorize 5000 characters - after all, in English, you only have to know the nine basic numbers and the 26 letters of the alphabet to get around the modern world. In English you can sound things out, guess, and there's a good chance you'll get the spelling roughly right. In Chinese, there is no alphabet. There is no guessing. It's just a shitload of memorizing.
Our lives weren't made any easier by our teacher, who to us, seemed to be permanently stuck in Stone Age China, despite being a Christmas Islander. After explaining to us in Pidgin English that her name was Mrs Foo but if we were to address her in Chinese we had to call her by her maiden name, so she would be 'ling lao shi' (a concept which I understood, growing up in an Asian family where married women kept their maiden names), we were still all confused, and ended up calling her 'Mrs foo ling lao shi', which eventually morphed into the easier 'Mrs Tofu'. Tofu, for white kids, described Mrs Foo/Ling Lao Shi perfectly - an unremarkably hopeless lump of goo.
Mrs Foo tried valiantly to teach us her language, but her attempts were in vain - the white kids mocked her mercilessly with her efforts to be 'cool' and her attempts to discipline us, and the Chinese kids mocked her elementary Chinese, which she used literally, word for word, ignoring rather comically some of the sayings and anologies common in the Chinese language. In the end, none of us could say more than 'ni hao ma' - which was how much Chinese we knew to begin with. I was considered one of the top students because I knew one other word - my Chinese name, Quan Zhi Xiu.
So after six years of a very motly LOTE education, I, along with the majority of the graduating class, remained stubbornly nonolingual. At least I was part of an alarmingly small percentage of schoolkids that can boast of a satisfactory grasp of our mother tongue, English. But ass horrible as we were to the teachers, I still don't think we are entirely to blame. I mean, when the only people who can speak another language are those taught outside the school by foreign parents, then there's obviously something wrong with the system. I mean, English schools teach French, and a larger majority of Brits know school French than Aussie kids know school anything.
I've always wanted to learn French. The exoticness that struck me as an eleven year old never fully left me, but more importantly, I knew that French would be a very useful language to learn - much more useful, it seemedto me, than Chinese, as I was intent on sticking to the Western World.
French in year eight was a hopeless story, with an Australian bloke with the same mental capacity as dear Mrs Foo and a horrible grasp of the delicacy of the French language, as well as the basic pronunciation. Ironically, this year is slightly better under the instruction of a slightly psychotic Italian teacher, but there was still the problem of being taught one thing and then the test being on something completely different, with confusing instructions written by Teacher Number One, as we will call him.
I still haven't given up on learning French. Perhaps I will learn it myself one day, pick it up, as I have picked up, rather incompetently, but still, I have taught myself basic html. Perhaps.
Until then, Auf Wiederzehn. Jai zian. Au revoir.
Young Artists for Haiti
Listening to: Wavin' Flag Haiti Remix by the Young Artists for Haiti
So, this is something I've been listening to pretty much non stop for a little while. This is a collaboration of Canadian musicians to support the Haiti relief movement after the devastating Haiti earthquake. It is based on the original K'naan song, Wavin' Flag, which also has dozens of international remixes and also the very famous Coca Cola/Fifa World Cup remix. This version was released after 'We Are The World', a more famous collaboration for Haiti, but somehow, I like this one better.
As the song says, even though the media's stopped covering and there's a little help from the government, it's still not all love in Haiti. Please give generously.
Soloists include: K'naan, Nelly Furtado, Avril Lavigne, Nikki Yanofsky and Justin Bieber.
So, this is something I've been listening to pretty much non stop for a little while. This is a collaboration of Canadian musicians to support the Haiti relief movement after the devastating Haiti earthquake. It is based on the original K'naan song, Wavin' Flag, which also has dozens of international remixes and also the very famous Coca Cola/Fifa World Cup remix. This version was released after 'We Are The World', a more famous collaboration for Haiti, but somehow, I like this one better.
As the song says, even though the media's stopped covering and there's a little help from the government, it's still not all love in Haiti. Please give generously.
Soloists include: K'naan, Nelly Furtado, Avril Lavigne, Nikki Yanofsky and Justin Bieber.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Politically Correct Censorship Bullcrap: Modern Tales On How Sad Our World Has Become.
Mood: ...kind of pissed off, actually. is it obvious?
Listening to: 'Airplanes' by B.o.B. ft. Hayley Williams from Paramore
Hungry for: nuthin', really.
Bella says: 'I DON'T WANNA PEEE!!!' (...that's nice, bella...)
Have you noticed how unbearably politically correct the world is these days? I mean, you can't say anything without offending at least half of the global population. You can't think or breathe. And if you don't, then you end up offending the other half of the population. Lovely.
I mean, I wish we could go back to the days when you could say something when people would laugh it off as a joke. I mean, jokes don't exist these days, unless they involve poo-poo and 'you're gay'. I mean, important things like 'I love you' are a joke now. But you know, normal things like 'Wow, the sky is pitch black' and then you have knives thrown at you. I mean, grow up.
I am in no way supporting racism or sexism or any other ism you can throw at me. I'm just saying, people are far too picky these days, far too petty. I mean, we're not allowed to say anything bad about anyone black, even if they're mass murdering bumholes, for no other reason except for the fact that they are black, and because of a shitload of shit that has happened to them throughout world history to their ancestors that are dead and gone by people who are dead and gone that their descendants are somehow immune to international law - it's somehow escaped our attention that our race really has nothing to do whether you turn out to be an angel or a devil or just normal. There are only so many things you can use 'you beat my great great great great great grandaddy up three squillion years ago' as an excuse. Political correctness has let so many 'historically alienated' or whatever the term is to basically get away with anything.
I mean, it's gotten to the point where Australia even has to change the name of a tree - we're not allowed to call blackboys blackboys anymore, we have to call them 'grass trees'. That is completely unreasonable - the contemporary reason why we call them 'blackboys' is because THEY'RE FLIPPING BLACK, AND NO, I HAVE NOTHING AGAINST ABORIGINALS and seriously, so what if it comes from slightly discriminatory roots? EVERY WORD HAS SOME KIND OF RASCIST OR SEXIST BACKGROUND. GET OVER IT. I mean, the word 'lord' comes from Old English for 'bread keeper' and 'lady' comes from the word 'bread maker', does that mean that we stop using these perfectly harmless words? Of course not!
Another thing I do not understand is how people make all sorts of bizarre connections between two completely irrelevant things, one being offensive and one completely harmless. I mean, if I say 'go away' I am not referring to some war between this person and this person when the dinosaurs roamed!?...
I'm serious, here. It's driving me crazy. Before I talk, I think and rethink everything about several million times, trying to analyze every angle, hoping I won't offend anybody, but someone always ends up hurt. And I really don't think it's my fault. I've been told...enough times to do some serious damage to my ego...that I'm just a fat insignficant girl. So why let a fat insignificant girl bother you? She doesn't bother you when she does anything good. So why let her bother you, why even bother trying to make bizarre politically correct connections? Why make me censor who I am?
Listening to: 'Airplanes' by B.o.B. ft. Hayley Williams from Paramore
Hungry for: nuthin', really.
Bella says: 'I DON'T WANNA PEEE!!!' (...that's nice, bella...)
Have you noticed how unbearably politically correct the world is these days? I mean, you can't say anything without offending at least half of the global population. You can't think or breathe. And if you don't, then you end up offending the other half of the population. Lovely.
I mean, I wish we could go back to the days when you could say something when people would laugh it off as a joke. I mean, jokes don't exist these days, unless they involve poo-poo and 'you're gay'. I mean, important things like 'I love you' are a joke now. But you know, normal things like 'Wow, the sky is pitch black' and then you have knives thrown at you. I mean, grow up.
I am in no way supporting racism or sexism or any other ism you can throw at me. I'm just saying, people are far too picky these days, far too petty. I mean, we're not allowed to say anything bad about anyone black, even if they're mass murdering bumholes, for no other reason except for the fact that they are black, and because of a shitload of shit that has happened to them throughout world history to their ancestors that are dead and gone by people who are dead and gone that their descendants are somehow immune to international law - it's somehow escaped our attention that our race really has nothing to do whether you turn out to be an angel or a devil or just normal. There are only so many things you can use 'you beat my great great great great great grandaddy up three squillion years ago' as an excuse. Political correctness has let so many 'historically alienated' or whatever the term is to basically get away with anything.
I mean, it's gotten to the point where Australia even has to change the name of a tree - we're not allowed to call blackboys blackboys anymore, we have to call them 'grass trees'. That is completely unreasonable - the contemporary reason why we call them 'blackboys' is because THEY'RE FLIPPING BLACK, AND NO, I HAVE NOTHING AGAINST ABORIGINALS and seriously, so what if it comes from slightly discriminatory roots? EVERY WORD HAS SOME KIND OF RASCIST OR SEXIST BACKGROUND. GET OVER IT. I mean, the word 'lord' comes from Old English for 'bread keeper' and 'lady' comes from the word 'bread maker', does that mean that we stop using these perfectly harmless words? Of course not!
Another thing I do not understand is how people make all sorts of bizarre connections between two completely irrelevant things, one being offensive and one completely harmless. I mean, if I say 'go away' I am not referring to some war between this person and this person when the dinosaurs roamed!?...
I'm serious, here. It's driving me crazy. Before I talk, I think and rethink everything about several million times, trying to analyze every angle, hoping I won't offend anybody, but someone always ends up hurt. And I really don't think it's my fault. I've been told...enough times to do some serious damage to my ego...that I'm just a fat insignficant girl. So why let a fat insignificant girl bother you? She doesn't bother you when she does anything good. So why let her bother you, why even bother trying to make bizarre politically correct connections? Why make me censor who I am?
Queen Bees and Wannabes - they still exist, you know.
So there was an article in the West Magazine last Saturday about my school, and about how everyone who goes there are mini Eintsteins and showed signs of a squillion IQ points when we were still in diapers and how we all live together happily in a Peaceful World of Einsteindom.
Okay, it's bad enough they try and brainwash us, as students, with that crap. But putting this in the most widely- read paper in the state? How it's all happy go lucky in our school of little nerdies?
Okay, so I'm not saying that our school is a Nazi zone or anything. It's a good school. We don't have major drug problems, or serious issues with alcohol or teenage pregnancies. Most of the staff aren't reincarnations of Hitler and Pol Pot and the curriculum is new, reasonably exciting and flexible. We don't have many unreasonable rules and we've got new buildings. I'm not saying that there's anything bad about our school, I'm not even saying there's nothing good about our school. I'm just saying that you can't make it out to be a Garden of Eden for Braniacs because it's not.
Of course our school has a social hierarchy. What school doesn't? It might not be Gossip Girl come to life but yes, of course we have the queen bees and dumb blondes and ripped jocks and disgusting idiots and bookworms and loners. What do you mean, we're all a like-minded cohort? Sure, we're all (in theory) smart, but whoever said that bright minds think alike or whatever the hell it is is a twit and has never met anyone with an IQ higher then that of a beetle. I mean, I'm a humanties major, does that mean I'll think the same way as someone who's in love with calculus? Of course not! There will always be queen bees and wannabes, even at our school - although, we do have a bit more brainpower, which sometimes makes things worse.
I'm just saying, you can't make something out to be what it's not. That's one thing I've always hated about Australian politics - and yes, a schoolyard is probably as, if not more, political then the Senate - is that we just tend to gloss over things, pretend everything's just fine, when it's not. I know - I do that when I clean my room - just drape something over the big piles of junk and BAM it's gone, but seriously, we shouldn't really do that. I mean, politicians are marvellous at dodging awkward questions by answering them with something completely irrelevant and off topic, e.g.:
JOURNALIST: Prime Minister, is it true that you've spent 30 million dollars of taxpayer's money on a site that doesn't work?
PRIME MINISTER: It's a lovely day, today, isn't it? How about some coffee, hm? The Australian Government firmly believes in the value of coffee and coffee makers...
Anyone guess what the title is from? Hint: Mean Girls.
Okay, it's bad enough they try and brainwash us, as students, with that crap. But putting this in the most widely- read paper in the state? How it's all happy go lucky in our school of little nerdies?
Okay, so I'm not saying that our school is a Nazi zone or anything. It's a good school. We don't have major drug problems, or serious issues with alcohol or teenage pregnancies. Most of the staff aren't reincarnations of Hitler and Pol Pot and the curriculum is new, reasonably exciting and flexible. We don't have many unreasonable rules and we've got new buildings. I'm not saying that there's anything bad about our school, I'm not even saying there's nothing good about our school. I'm just saying that you can't make it out to be a Garden of Eden for Braniacs because it's not.
Of course our school has a social hierarchy. What school doesn't? It might not be Gossip Girl come to life but yes, of course we have the queen bees and dumb blondes and ripped jocks and disgusting idiots and bookworms and loners. What do you mean, we're all a like-minded cohort? Sure, we're all (in theory) smart, but whoever said that bright minds think alike or whatever the hell it is is a twit and has never met anyone with an IQ higher then that of a beetle. I mean, I'm a humanties major, does that mean I'll think the same way as someone who's in love with calculus? Of course not! There will always be queen bees and wannabes, even at our school - although, we do have a bit more brainpower, which sometimes makes things worse.
I'm just saying, you can't make something out to be what it's not. That's one thing I've always hated about Australian politics - and yes, a schoolyard is probably as, if not more, political then the Senate - is that we just tend to gloss over things, pretend everything's just fine, when it's not. I know - I do that when I clean my room - just drape something over the big piles of junk and BAM it's gone, but seriously, we shouldn't really do that. I mean, politicians are marvellous at dodging awkward questions by answering them with something completely irrelevant and off topic, e.g.:
JOURNALIST: Prime Minister, is it true that you've spent 30 million dollars of taxpayer's money on a site that doesn't work?
PRIME MINISTER: It's a lovely day, today, isn't it? How about some coffee, hm? The Australian Government firmly believes in the value of coffee and coffee makers...
Anyone guess what the title is from? Hint: Mean Girls.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
10 Things Not To Say On a Date
Mood: pissed off
Listening to: 'Airplanes' by B.o.B ft. Hayley Williams from Paramore
Hungry for: pizza
Bella says: 'stupid haircut...'
Do you know how many articles I have seen in women's magazines of '10 Things Not to Say on a Date'? Too freaking many, that's how many. I mean, why are women constantly encouraged to censor who we are for men? Don't talk about periods, don't talk about sex, don't talk about the drama of hair removal. Wear makeup, but don't wear too much, don't let it look like you're wearing makeup, you know? Dress provocatively, but not sluttily, as if there's a difference, do your hair, but don't spend ages because you don't want to keep your guy waiting. We're told not to order a salad because he'll think you're anorexic but don't eat too much either, or he'll think you're gluttinous. Wear lipstick but don't complain when he complains about getting pink frosting all over his lips when he kisses you. Don't criticize, don't complain, just grin and bear it. That is basically what we are told to do when we date. In fact, we're not even allowed to grin - apparently men don't like that either.
Yet I've never seen an article telling men to get a decent suit and deodorant before a first date, I've never seen any journalist say 'shave but don't look like you've shaved, you know?'. We've been told a squillion times that men don't want to hear about your ex broke your fucking heart and humiliated you in front of the entire cosmos, but someone's never gotten around to telling guys that no, we don't want to hear about the cricket our the footy or how spectacular Lleyton Hewitt was in the Hoffman Cup of '07. Someone's never told guys that we don't want to hear how you can burp 'Twinkle Twinkle' or how many girls you've shagged, in order from best to worst. Even if we tell guys these things, they just brush it off, saying things like 'don't be picky', or worse, throw an all out hissy about 'how we're trying to change them' and 'controlling bitch'.
Maybe this is why I don't have a boyfriend. I don't have time to keep up with this shit. I don't have time to pretend to be something I'm not. And I don't have the patience to keep up with a world that preys on my insecurities.
Listening to: 'Airplanes' by B.o.B ft. Hayley Williams from Paramore
Hungry for: pizza
Bella says: 'stupid haircut...'
Do you know how many articles I have seen in women's magazines of '10 Things Not to Say on a Date'? Too freaking many, that's how many. I mean, why are women constantly encouraged to censor who we are for men? Don't talk about periods, don't talk about sex, don't talk about the drama of hair removal. Wear makeup, but don't wear too much, don't let it look like you're wearing makeup, you know? Dress provocatively, but not sluttily, as if there's a difference, do your hair, but don't spend ages because you don't want to keep your guy waiting. We're told not to order a salad because he'll think you're anorexic but don't eat too much either, or he'll think you're gluttinous. Wear lipstick but don't complain when he complains about getting pink frosting all over his lips when he kisses you. Don't criticize, don't complain, just grin and bear it. That is basically what we are told to do when we date. In fact, we're not even allowed to grin - apparently men don't like that either.
Yet I've never seen an article telling men to get a decent suit and deodorant before a first date, I've never seen any journalist say 'shave but don't look like you've shaved, you know?'. We've been told a squillion times that men don't want to hear about your ex broke your fucking heart and humiliated you in front of the entire cosmos, but someone's never gotten around to telling guys that no, we don't want to hear about the cricket our the footy or how spectacular Lleyton Hewitt was in the Hoffman Cup of '07. Someone's never told guys that we don't want to hear how you can burp 'Twinkle Twinkle' or how many girls you've shagged, in order from best to worst. Even if we tell guys these things, they just brush it off, saying things like 'don't be picky', or worse, throw an all out hissy about 'how we're trying to change them' and 'controlling bitch'.
Maybe this is why I don't have a boyfriend. I don't have time to keep up with this shit. I don't have time to pretend to be something I'm not. And I don't have the patience to keep up with a world that preys on my insecurities.
Friday, July 09, 2010
Pasta Point of No Return
So if you live in Perth, 'pasta' can mean any of these three things:
1) The frozen lasagnes you get in Coles that you shove in the oven when mum's going out and dad can't be bothered cooking
2) The mixed up share plate of goopy creamy yumminess that you share where you try to avoid the revolting pennes and everyone fights over the garlic potatoes (which is not really a pasta, but it is the best bit)
3) The enormous plate you get served at those fancy restaurants with heavy silverware and proper cloth napkins and ridiculous prices, with the tiny knot of noodles in the middle of this colossal Jupiter-sized plate, with a few drops of fancy but inedible sauce drizzled around.
So yeah, that's basically the state of Italian food here in Perth. It could be worse - the French here is non-existant, the Japanese is limited to some seriously good teriyaki and some seriously bad ramen noodles, and the Korean...don't even get me started on the Korean.
But recently, I've found this amazing little place called House of Pasta, which is truly good grub, man. It's a Cafe to Go franchise, but don't judge it on that - it doesn't skimp on quality or quantity. The menu is a mix of old comfort food favourites and weird-but-nice stuff for the eccentric gourmet, and just...I dunno. I'm in lurve. I'm pasta the point of no return.
I watched Eclipse a couple of days ago, and even though I did my usual rating on Rotten Tomatoes, I thought I should talk about it here.
Eclipse is an interesting movie in that there are normally good movies and bad movies, wherelse Eclipse is really, really, good in some aspects and really, really bad in others.
I'm a self confessed movie freak. I'm also a recovering Twilight addict. To tell you what was hot and what was not about Eclipse, lets talk about the other two movies first:
Twilight
This is the first book of the saga, and also the first movie to be made. The casting, I think, was great, with the exception of Robert Pattinson - as I've mentioned earlier, I reckon there are better actors for the job (see my posts The Perfect Edward Cullen (April 2010) and Just a few...random...notes (May 2010)). The special effects were good except for the 'vampire in the sunlight sparkle' - expolding a bag of Michael's glitter onto Rpattz would have achieved a better effect.
Twilight was directed by Catherine Hardwicke, an indie director - indie films meaning the deep and meaningful shit, where the colour of one's shoes shines a whole new light on a deep and meaningful plot. Probably not the best choice for an epic saga of much style and little substance, but it was an interesting take on things. The screenplay is strange, with scenes building up the suspense before disappointing anticlimaxes, and unforgivable plot cuts - I mean, the plot is bad enough already, why make it worse?
New Moon
The second movie, the action and drama and romance is amped up from the suggested themes from the 'deep and meaningful stares' of the indie first Twilight movie. Robert Pattinson goes from half bad to very bad, but the special effects were good and the acting got better from most of the class as Robert Pattinson's acting got worse (I know I'm picking on him - I know it is a hard role to play, but that's really no excuse for being that terrible). Taylor Lautner debuts his brand new abs, but he doesn't blend in too well with the rest of the pack, who are relatively normal looking compared to his glossy hair, smouldering eyes and high Keanu Reeves cheekbones. Bella goes from being a depressingly sad mess to that heartbroken highschooler any girl can relate to, which is great. The trip to Italy is rushed and confusing, and there's no nailbiting suspense leading up to the big scene with the Volturi like there is in the book, which is disappointing.
The director of this film is Chris Weitz, director of the (utter fail) movie adaption of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy - so basically, he's already established himself as a director that is shit at translating books to film. So why do it again!? The screenplay in this is still shit, but at least the script improves ever so slightly.
Eclipse
Eclipse is very good in terms of directing - the director for this installment is David Slade, who is a veteran at old-school horror, which is really cool - the movie gets the whole zombie treatment. Kristen Stewart's acting finally lives up to her reputation as the best actress of her generation, especially in her scenes sans Edward...but there aren't too many of those. Robert Pattinson...well, really, Robert Pattinson is being his usual moronic constipated self. Taylor Lautner ups on the drama without being tacky, although much of the dialogue is extremely tacky and cheesy in this movie, which kind of ruins it. Bella finally becomes a character of substance, intelligence and independence wherelse Edward loses all credibility as the next Mr Darcy and becomes a psychopathic controlling freak. The screenplay picks up a little in that the cuts made are good cuts, and the additions made actually make sense.
So there it was: my thoughts on pasta and vampires. They do make a lovely combination, don't they?
Just another thing, something I picked up from my favourite TV series, Gossip Girl. Every blog title from now (including this one) will be a spin on some sort of book or movie title or quote. If you can name the book or movie title or quote (try saying that five times fast ;)), see if you can be the first one to name it in the comments!
1) The frozen lasagnes you get in Coles that you shove in the oven when mum's going out and dad can't be bothered cooking
2) The mixed up share plate of goopy creamy yumminess that you share where you try to avoid the revolting pennes and everyone fights over the garlic potatoes (which is not really a pasta, but it is the best bit)
3) The enormous plate you get served at those fancy restaurants with heavy silverware and proper cloth napkins and ridiculous prices, with the tiny knot of noodles in the middle of this colossal Jupiter-sized plate, with a few drops of fancy but inedible sauce drizzled around.
So yeah, that's basically the state of Italian food here in Perth. It could be worse - the French here is non-existant, the Japanese is limited to some seriously good teriyaki and some seriously bad ramen noodles, and the Korean...don't even get me started on the Korean.
But recently, I've found this amazing little place called House of Pasta, which is truly good grub, man. It's a Cafe to Go franchise, but don't judge it on that - it doesn't skimp on quality or quantity. The menu is a mix of old comfort food favourites and weird-but-nice stuff for the eccentric gourmet, and just...I dunno. I'm in lurve. I'm pasta the point of no return.
I watched Eclipse a couple of days ago, and even though I did my usual rating on Rotten Tomatoes, I thought I should talk about it here.
Eclipse is an interesting movie in that there are normally good movies and bad movies, wherelse Eclipse is really, really, good in some aspects and really, really bad in others.
I'm a self confessed movie freak. I'm also a recovering Twilight addict. To tell you what was hot and what was not about Eclipse, lets talk about the other two movies first:
Twilight
This is the first book of the saga, and also the first movie to be made. The casting, I think, was great, with the exception of Robert Pattinson - as I've mentioned earlier, I reckon there are better actors for the job (see my posts The Perfect Edward Cullen (April 2010) and Just a few...random...notes (May 2010)). The special effects were good except for the 'vampire in the sunlight sparkle' - expolding a bag of Michael's glitter onto Rpattz would have achieved a better effect.
Twilight was directed by Catherine Hardwicke, an indie director - indie films meaning the deep and meaningful shit, where the colour of one's shoes shines a whole new light on a deep and meaningful plot. Probably not the best choice for an epic saga of much style and little substance, but it was an interesting take on things. The screenplay is strange, with scenes building up the suspense before disappointing anticlimaxes, and unforgivable plot cuts - I mean, the plot is bad enough already, why make it worse?
New Moon
The second movie, the action and drama and romance is amped up from the suggested themes from the 'deep and meaningful stares' of the indie first Twilight movie. Robert Pattinson goes from half bad to very bad, but the special effects were good and the acting got better from most of the class as Robert Pattinson's acting got worse (I know I'm picking on him - I know it is a hard role to play, but that's really no excuse for being that terrible). Taylor Lautner debuts his brand new abs, but he doesn't blend in too well with the rest of the pack, who are relatively normal looking compared to his glossy hair, smouldering eyes and high Keanu Reeves cheekbones. Bella goes from being a depressingly sad mess to that heartbroken highschooler any girl can relate to, which is great. The trip to Italy is rushed and confusing, and there's no nailbiting suspense leading up to the big scene with the Volturi like there is in the book, which is disappointing.
The director of this film is Chris Weitz, director of the (utter fail) movie adaption of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy - so basically, he's already established himself as a director that is shit at translating books to film. So why do it again!? The screenplay in this is still shit, but at least the script improves ever so slightly.
Eclipse
Eclipse is very good in terms of directing - the director for this installment is David Slade, who is a veteran at old-school horror, which is really cool - the movie gets the whole zombie treatment. Kristen Stewart's acting finally lives up to her reputation as the best actress of her generation, especially in her scenes sans Edward...but there aren't too many of those. Robert Pattinson...well, really, Robert Pattinson is being his usual moronic constipated self. Taylor Lautner ups on the drama without being tacky, although much of the dialogue is extremely tacky and cheesy in this movie, which kind of ruins it. Bella finally becomes a character of substance, intelligence and independence wherelse Edward loses all credibility as the next Mr Darcy and becomes a psychopathic controlling freak. The screenplay picks up a little in that the cuts made are good cuts, and the additions made actually make sense.
So there it was: my thoughts on pasta and vampires. They do make a lovely combination, don't they?
Just another thing, something I picked up from my favourite TV series, Gossip Girl. Every blog title from now (including this one) will be a spin on some sort of book or movie title or quote. If you can name the book or movie title or quote (try saying that five times fast ;)), see if you can be the first one to name it in the comments!
Monday, July 05, 2010
Book Review: Beastly
Mood: trilogied
Listening to: 'Fall to Pieces' by Avril Lavigne
Hungry for: bavarian coffee
Bella says: zzz, as usual.
Okay, so I've bought this book recently and, as I do, I've read and reread it several times, plus researched everything I can about the up-and-coming movie adaption that's due out in March next year, with Alex Pettyfer (Stormbreaker, Wild Child) in the lead role of the Beast and Vanessa Hudgens (High School Musical) as his love interest, Lindy.
Beastly is a very interesting book in that it's teen lit, but not normal teen lit. Its brilliant teen lit. Simply written from the narrow-minded perspective of a rich, handsome and selfish boy as he loses his looks but slowly gains a heart, it cuts all the fluffy goo that normally accompanies chick lit romances (think Twilight), but instead cuts to the core of the novel, which is basically a modern retelling of the classic fairytale, The Beauty and the Beast. The book is a rarity in that it is deeply romantic and sentimental, but still every page is enjoyable, with none of the syrupy stuff being the cheesy, cliched, tacky cringeworthy jargon we're used to nowadays.
Because we all know the basic storyline, I'm not going to shy away from spoilers here. Just giving you a notice.
Kyle Kingsbury is a rich, handsome but cruelly selfish boy who has been raised by his image-obsessed father to believe that 'how much people like you is directly proportionate to what you look like', and consequently develops a deep dislike of 'ugly' people - particularly scholarship students in his elite school, Tuttle, as they have neither money, status or good looks, the three things he treasures most in life. One of his favourite pastimes is scheming with his 'evil bitch' girlfriend, Sloane, concocting plans designed to humiliate the 'ugly' people he so detests.
On one of his pranks the victim is a new student, a creepy, eccentric goth girl called Kendra Hilferty, who Kyle cannot describe in any other way aside from 'witch'. When she openly claims that Kyle is 'ugly on the inside, where it matters most' and that he is 'beastly', he seeks his revenge by pretending he has a crush on her, asking her out to a dance but then showing up with Sloane instead. Disgusted that he tried to inflict pain and humiliation on a fellow human being, Kendra, who really is a witch, casts a spell on Kyle to make him a beast with fangs, fur and claws. She tells him that because he exhibited a single act of kindness - he gave a girl who was a volunteer helper at the dance the rose corsage that Sloane refused (because, as a white rose, was considered too plain and cheap and was not the 'purple orchid' she specifically asked for) - Kendra says he can break the curse by making someone fall in love with him within two years, and proving that love with a kiss. Kyle believes this to be impossible, convinced that nobody could look past his horrible appearance and, somewhat truthfully, that aside from his lost good looks he has nothing worthy of love or attention. Kyle is left with a magical mirror, in which he can see anything and anyone he wishes to see.
Kyle's father desperately searches the globe for a cure for his horribly disfigured son, but when his attempts are fruitless, he puts Kyle in a house in total solititude, aside from the family maid, Magda, a blind tutor, Will, and his guide dog. Bored, frustrated and abandoned, Kyle begins to read literature about characters who are ugly and abandoned (The Phantom of the Opera, The Hunchback of Notre Dame) and changes his name to Adrian King, Adrian meaning 'dark one'. During this time, Adrian joins an internet chatgroup under the name 'BeastNYC', chatting with other people who have apparently been changed by witchcraft as well. Adrian also starts a rose garden at the suggestion of Will, who is partial to roses.
After a year of solitute and several failed attempts to find girls to fall in love with, a robber, who also has drugs, attempts to break in to Adrian's house, only to be caught in the act. Terrified both of Adrian's gruesome appearance and the prospect of being arrested and jailed, the robber offers Adrian his daughter to live with in Adrian's house. Through the mirror, Adrian realizes that the robber's daughter, who's name is Linda 'Lindy' Owens, is the same girl he gave the rose corsage to the day he was transformed. Before she arrives, Adrian decorates a suit for her, complete with a king sized bed with designer sheets, a full private library and a complete wardrobe, eager for her to be impressed with his effort and wealth. Lindy arrives, however, frightened at the prospect of being a prisoner of a man she doesn't know, and is offended and unimpressed at her 'kidnapper's attempts to impress her. She refuses to come out of her rooms for several days.
When Lindy eventually comes out of her rooms and sees Adrian's gruesome appearance, her hostility melts away to a mixture of pity and compassion. They become friends, and Adrian begins to fall in love with her, but it appears that Lindy does not reciprocate. During the winter, Adrian's small household leave the brownstone they have been cooped up in and go to a private ski lodge for the winter.
Shortly before the second year of Adrian's curse is up, he shows Lindy his magical mirror, who sees through it that her father has become homeless and desperately ill as a consequence of drug dealing and excessive drug use. She wants to go back to see him and Adrian selflessly allows her to go, asking her to come back to him 'only if she wants to...as my friend, not as my prisoner'. Adrian believes that she would never return and thus never break his curse, having never shown any sign of loving him, but let her go out of love. Adrian and his household return to the brownstone, where he is resigned to spending the rest of his life as a monster. Using his mirror, he keeps track of Lindy, who has rescued her father from utter destitution but had lost her scholarship to Tuttle, as a result of being absent for nearly a year. Adrian looks on guiltily as she puts up with a rubbish downtown school.
Adrian then sees Lindy being abducted by a man armed with a gun, and rushes to her rescue, getting shot in the process. As he lays dying, he asks Lindy to kiss him, which she does, and by doing so she breaks the spell, causing Adrian to return to his normal body. Confused, she tries to run away from Kyle, not knowing that he is actually Adrian, but cannot escape from him because he is 'taller and stronger than he used to be'. He then explains who he is, and then they live 'happily ever after' in Kyle's brownstone, which is no longer a prison. Because of some selfless requests he made of Kendra as a beast, Will regains his eyesight and is given a temporary job as an English teacher at Tuttle as he studies in a university by night to become an English professor. Magda, the maid, who has been seperated from her family who live in their native land abroad, is reunited with them after being apart for decades. Kendra then reveals that she is actually Magda, having been condemned by the witch community to be a servant to a 21st century American family forever, seperated from her family, but because Kyle requested that if his spell is ever lifted Magda might be able to see her family again, Kendra is reunited with her own witch family, which is represented as a murder of crows which she joins.
Listening to: 'Fall to Pieces' by Avril Lavigne
Hungry for: bavarian coffee
Bella says: zzz, as usual.
Okay, so I've bought this book recently and, as I do, I've read and reread it several times, plus researched everything I can about the up-and-coming movie adaption that's due out in March next year, with Alex Pettyfer (Stormbreaker, Wild Child) in the lead role of the Beast and Vanessa Hudgens (High School Musical) as his love interest, Lindy.
Beastly is a very interesting book in that it's teen lit, but not normal teen lit. Its brilliant teen lit. Simply written from the narrow-minded perspective of a rich, handsome and selfish boy as he loses his looks but slowly gains a heart, it cuts all the fluffy goo that normally accompanies chick lit romances (think Twilight), but instead cuts to the core of the novel, which is basically a modern retelling of the classic fairytale, The Beauty and the Beast. The book is a rarity in that it is deeply romantic and sentimental, but still every page is enjoyable, with none of the syrupy stuff being the cheesy, cliched, tacky cringeworthy jargon we're used to nowadays.
Because we all know the basic storyline, I'm not going to shy away from spoilers here. Just giving you a notice.
Kyle Kingsbury is a rich, handsome but cruelly selfish boy who has been raised by his image-obsessed father to believe that 'how much people like you is directly proportionate to what you look like', and consequently develops a deep dislike of 'ugly' people - particularly scholarship students in his elite school, Tuttle, as they have neither money, status or good looks, the three things he treasures most in life. One of his favourite pastimes is scheming with his 'evil bitch' girlfriend, Sloane, concocting plans designed to humiliate the 'ugly' people he so detests.
On one of his pranks the victim is a new student, a creepy, eccentric goth girl called Kendra Hilferty, who Kyle cannot describe in any other way aside from 'witch'. When she openly claims that Kyle is 'ugly on the inside, where it matters most' and that he is 'beastly', he seeks his revenge by pretending he has a crush on her, asking her out to a dance but then showing up with Sloane instead. Disgusted that he tried to inflict pain and humiliation on a fellow human being, Kendra, who really is a witch, casts a spell on Kyle to make him a beast with fangs, fur and claws. She tells him that because he exhibited a single act of kindness - he gave a girl who was a volunteer helper at the dance the rose corsage that Sloane refused (because, as a white rose, was considered too plain and cheap and was not the 'purple orchid' she specifically asked for) - Kendra says he can break the curse by making someone fall in love with him within two years, and proving that love with a kiss. Kyle believes this to be impossible, convinced that nobody could look past his horrible appearance and, somewhat truthfully, that aside from his lost good looks he has nothing worthy of love or attention. Kyle is left with a magical mirror, in which he can see anything and anyone he wishes to see.
Kyle's father desperately searches the globe for a cure for his horribly disfigured son, but when his attempts are fruitless, he puts Kyle in a house in total solititude, aside from the family maid, Magda, a blind tutor, Will, and his guide dog. Bored, frustrated and abandoned, Kyle begins to read literature about characters who are ugly and abandoned (The Phantom of the Opera, The Hunchback of Notre Dame) and changes his name to Adrian King, Adrian meaning 'dark one'. During this time, Adrian joins an internet chatgroup under the name 'BeastNYC', chatting with other people who have apparently been changed by witchcraft as well. Adrian also starts a rose garden at the suggestion of Will, who is partial to roses.
After a year of solitute and several failed attempts to find girls to fall in love with, a robber, who also has drugs, attempts to break in to Adrian's house, only to be caught in the act. Terrified both of Adrian's gruesome appearance and the prospect of being arrested and jailed, the robber offers Adrian his daughter to live with in Adrian's house. Through the mirror, Adrian realizes that the robber's daughter, who's name is Linda 'Lindy' Owens, is the same girl he gave the rose corsage to the day he was transformed. Before she arrives, Adrian decorates a suit for her, complete with a king sized bed with designer sheets, a full private library and a complete wardrobe, eager for her to be impressed with his effort and wealth. Lindy arrives, however, frightened at the prospect of being a prisoner of a man she doesn't know, and is offended and unimpressed at her 'kidnapper's attempts to impress her. She refuses to come out of her rooms for several days.
When Lindy eventually comes out of her rooms and sees Adrian's gruesome appearance, her hostility melts away to a mixture of pity and compassion. They become friends, and Adrian begins to fall in love with her, but it appears that Lindy does not reciprocate. During the winter, Adrian's small household leave the brownstone they have been cooped up in and go to a private ski lodge for the winter.
Shortly before the second year of Adrian's curse is up, he shows Lindy his magical mirror, who sees through it that her father has become homeless and desperately ill as a consequence of drug dealing and excessive drug use. She wants to go back to see him and Adrian selflessly allows her to go, asking her to come back to him 'only if she wants to...as my friend, not as my prisoner'. Adrian believes that she would never return and thus never break his curse, having never shown any sign of loving him, but let her go out of love. Adrian and his household return to the brownstone, where he is resigned to spending the rest of his life as a monster. Using his mirror, he keeps track of Lindy, who has rescued her father from utter destitution but had lost her scholarship to Tuttle, as a result of being absent for nearly a year. Adrian looks on guiltily as she puts up with a rubbish downtown school.
Adrian then sees Lindy being abducted by a man armed with a gun, and rushes to her rescue, getting shot in the process. As he lays dying, he asks Lindy to kiss him, which she does, and by doing so she breaks the spell, causing Adrian to return to his normal body. Confused, she tries to run away from Kyle, not knowing that he is actually Adrian, but cannot escape from him because he is 'taller and stronger than he used to be'. He then explains who he is, and then they live 'happily ever after' in Kyle's brownstone, which is no longer a prison. Because of some selfless requests he made of Kendra as a beast, Will regains his eyesight and is given a temporary job as an English teacher at Tuttle as he studies in a university by night to become an English professor. Magda, the maid, who has been seperated from her family who live in their native land abroad, is reunited with them after being apart for decades. Kendra then reveals that she is actually Magda, having been condemned by the witch community to be a servant to a 21st century American family forever, seperated from her family, but because Kyle requested that if his spell is ever lifted Magda might be able to see her family again, Kendra is reunited with her own witch family, which is represented as a murder of crows which she joins.
Saturday, July 03, 2010
Star Wars, Hayden, and random boy obsessions
Mood: star wars!
Listening to: star wars!
Hungry for: star wars!
Bella says: star wars!
Okay, so every now and again I get in this fangirlish mood and I watch like a stack of Star Wars fanvids - some of them are actually quite good. My favourites are:
An Anakin-Padme shipper, set to 'My Happy Ending' by Avril Lavigne
A vid about Anakin's fall to the dark side, and Obi-Wan's guilt that he didn't know 'how to save a life' - set to 'How To Save A Life' by The Fray
An Obi-Wan/Padme/Anakin fanvid about how Obi-Wan secretly loves Padme and watches from a distance as she falls in love with Anakin, which leads them both to their dooms. Set to 'Love Song Requiem' by Trading Yesterday
A Padme/Anakin fanvid about what Padme is thinking about when she arrives at Mustafar/gets choked to death by her psychopath husband/giving birth to Darth Vader spawn/dying tragically/when dead. Set to 'Please Remember' by LeAnn Rimes.
Another thing I have a habit of watching is entire movies on YouTube, or as many clips as possible, which I also do with TV series (Yi San). So I was watching some clips of Anakin and Padme from the prequel trilogy, who are, of course, played by Hayden Christensen and Natalie Portman respectively.
I love Hayden Christensen and Natalie Portman. I love Natalie Portman because she's a great actress, but I really only love Hayden Christensen because he's great eye-candy. I mean, he's a shit actor, so bad that he drags the stellar Star Wars cast down epically. I mean, I really don't get how you can be that tragic at acting. Even I'm not that bad.
But as I said, Hayden is amazing eye candy, but he's one of a very long list of actor-obsessions - Chad Michael Murray, Orlando Bloom, then my buddy Hayden, Alex Pettyfer, Taylor Lautner, Paul Wesley, Keanu Reeves. Practically all of my crushes have been on actors...and really, really, really bad actors most of the time, but with really, really, really awesome six-packs.
What is it with us girls liking untalented David lookalikes? (David as in the Michelangelo sculpture). I honestly don't know. I mean, all my favourite actresses actually do have talent, but most of my favourite actors, with the exception of the late Heath Ledger and Johnny Depp, are like negative on the talent factor but off the charts sexy.
But you know what? I don't care. I've spent my whole life being smart and nerdy. I'm allowed to have a few shallow obsessions (I love you Justin Bieber!). Several freaky ones, too.
Listening to: star wars!
Hungry for: star wars!
Bella says: star wars!
Okay, so every now and again I get in this fangirlish mood and I watch like a stack of Star Wars fanvids - some of them are actually quite good. My favourites are:
An Anakin-Padme shipper, set to 'My Happy Ending' by Avril Lavigne
A vid about Anakin's fall to the dark side, and Obi-Wan's guilt that he didn't know 'how to save a life' - set to 'How To Save A Life' by The Fray
An Obi-Wan/Padme/Anakin fanvid about how Obi-Wan secretly loves Padme and watches from a distance as she falls in love with Anakin, which leads them both to their dooms. Set to 'Love Song Requiem' by Trading Yesterday
A Padme/Anakin fanvid about what Padme is thinking about when she arrives at Mustafar/gets choked to death by her psychopath husband/giving birth to Darth Vader spawn/dying tragically/when dead. Set to 'Please Remember' by LeAnn Rimes.
Another thing I have a habit of watching is entire movies on YouTube, or as many clips as possible, which I also do with TV series (Yi San). So I was watching some clips of Anakin and Padme from the prequel trilogy, who are, of course, played by Hayden Christensen and Natalie Portman respectively.
I love Hayden Christensen and Natalie Portman. I love Natalie Portman because she's a great actress, but I really only love Hayden Christensen because he's great eye-candy. I mean, he's a shit actor, so bad that he drags the stellar Star Wars cast down epically. I mean, I really don't get how you can be that tragic at acting. Even I'm not that bad.
But as I said, Hayden is amazing eye candy, but he's one of a very long list of actor-obsessions - Chad Michael Murray, Orlando Bloom, then my buddy Hayden, Alex Pettyfer, Taylor Lautner, Paul Wesley, Keanu Reeves. Practically all of my crushes have been on actors...and really, really, really bad actors most of the time, but with really, really, really awesome six-packs.
What is it with us girls liking untalented David lookalikes? (David as in the Michelangelo sculpture). I honestly don't know. I mean, all my favourite actresses actually do have talent, but most of my favourite actors, with the exception of the late Heath Ledger and Johnny Depp, are like negative on the talent factor but off the charts sexy.
But you know what? I don't care. I've spent my whole life being smart and nerdy. I'm allowed to have a few shallow obsessions (I love you Justin Bieber!). Several freaky ones, too.
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