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Windswept #SidewaysSelfieWednesday

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MST3k: The Definitive Oral History of a TV Masterpiece | WIRED

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Transcendence (2014) - Everyone involved with this overlong, muttering belch of a movie would be making a wise decision if they struck it from their resumes. The actors float through their respective scenes like ghosts. Rebecca Hall can barely muster a wince as a substitution for basic human emotion. Kate Mara appears to be running on burnt coffee and fumes. Morgan Freeman is a Pavlovian snap away from reciting March of the Penguins copy. Cillian Murphy is puffy. Depp should be the one forced to sit through this nonsense and justifiably feel the most embarrassment. Long before his digital transformation, Depp’s performance is nothing more than wilting eyelids and a petulant frown, as if he was forced to perform in lieu of having his nap privileges taken away for the afternoon. Don’t worry about the screenplay, score or cinematography, it’s all rubbish. Run. Just run.

P.S. There’s a moment where A.I. Depp makes a reservation for his wife at a fancy hotel. The name under which the reservation is held? Turing. I honest to God threw up my hands and laughed in astonishment for a solid fifteen seconds. When a movie goes that far out of its way to be moronic it’s worth noting for the future. Oh, and don’t worry, there’s room for a sequel. For a title, may I suggest Ascension?

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Spoiler: ‘Transcendence’ is terrible.

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Recording begins today! #HowRude #TheFullHousePodcast #FullHouse #Podcast #Podcasting cc @beeshock

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This could be us but you playin’. Did I use that right?

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When was the last time I wrote about Glee? Nine years ago? Probably. The show has officially dumped the high school setting and made a permanent move to the NYC stories. It’s definitely an improvement, if only because we seemingly never have to watch another music number in that God forsaken classroom. There is a lot happening in the “Bash” episode, from the titular hate crime to Rachel’s stupid decision to leave school and some old school racism on the part of Mercedes’ backup singers. None of it is what you could call great or even good television but at least it’s not about fifteen-year-olds anymore. And if Ryan Murphy is to be believed (we should never believe Ryan Murphy has a plan) the final season will see a time jump, so who knows if any of this will even matter? Remember when Santana was Rachel’s Funny Girl understudy until she quit on a whim? Remember when Quinn was in a wheelchair until she, you know, stopped being in a wheelchair? Remember when Rachel was pregnant until she, you know, wasn’t pregnant? Hoo boy. All I can say definitively is this season has felt endless.

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I discovered bed bugs this past weekend. They were residing in my comforter, so I promptly threw it out along with a blanket. I washed the sheets and did a thorough inspection of the mattress before concluding all would be well. By my logic, if they were within the comforter (they were definitely within the comforter) the problem has been solved. This is what I hope, at least. My property manager never responded to my e-mail about the situation. Who here is surprised by this information? No one.

What’s funny about this incident is how I didn’t freak out. I was bummed by the idea of spending money on a new comforter but my overall reaction was downright muted compared to how I handled the ceiling leak fiasco from this past winter. I even had a nightmare about bed bugs but it was so exaggerated my waking up from it came with overwhelming relief, not panic. You should have seen the nightmare version of my apartment: Grey water pouring down every wall in sheets, bugs all over the place (one was riding a feral cat that had jumped through an open window). My brain went as far as creating a creepy lady neighbor who had broken into the place just so she could watch fucked up VHS tapes.

I’m starting to wonder about my maturation process as the years go on. On the one hand, it’s great I didn’t have a panic attack over the bed bugs. Bed bugs are a serious problem, don’t get me wrong, but it would not have helped to fall apart in the moment. On the other hand, the slightest bump throws me off at work and I immediately fly into a pissy, infantile rage. Shouldn’t I be more used to the trials of working in a dumb office? Come on brain, let’s figure this out together. I’m 28-years-old for crying out loud!