Monday, January 31, 2011

The first five minutes of Buried with Ryan Reynolds is grunting. Grunting and darkness. Normally, I am all for movies with grunting and Ryan Reynolds and some darkness, but when the lights finally came on nobody was naked. And it wasn’t even a light insomuch as it was a lighter. When you are stuck in a coffin where oxygen is limited, continuously having your butane lighter on is probably not the smartest survival idea. I mean, sure, have an initial look around. Survey your surroundings. Four walls, check. No means of escape, check. Lighter off. Now, go ahead and pound away on the wood like being buried under whatevermany feet of sand pressure is going to make it easy for the walls of the coffin to just sort of break so you can escape. Actually, keep trying to break the wood cuz, yeah, SAND STARTS TO FALL IN. And you are tired of all that free space and oxygen and would rather become trapped inside a human hour glass. Grunt some more, Ryan Reynolds. Turn on your lighter some more. Look around. Nothing’s changed. Continue pounding and grunting. Make some phone calls. Die. This movie was retarded. I was glad he spoiler alert died. Him and his stupid lighter.

I have a hematoma on the side of my thigh that is the shape of Australia, the size of small mango and the color of a blueberry. The surface of it is sort of raised, like a baby’s head emerging from the birth canal. When I went running today, it hurt as my thigh jiggled with each stride. It hurts when I pull my jeans up. It hurts when I push my jeans down. The color has changed since yesterday when it was a sort of magenta color. It’s a morphing. I’m too old to play one-on-one basketball. I will stick to shooting free throws and knitting with my slippers on.

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