No, I have no evidence for the above claim. At all. I just like the way it sounds. But Renée Zellweger was at the Eric Carle Museum of Picture Book Art last week, and I decided to post about it because, as we all know, this blog is the first place to go for hot celebrity news. And by "hot celebrity news," I mean "this one time I thought I saw Paris Hilton but it was actually a rabid emu." I, unfortunately, was not actually working the day Renée showed up (yeah, she's Renée to me now--we're buds), but apparently everyone was watching her walk around via the security camera, which I feel is the truest measure of success. If people are willing to give up work and crowd around a grainy, black-and-white picture of you for an hour, you've made it. That's how I know I'm famous, anyway, since they do that to videos of me down at the police station all the time. Anyway, Renée, apparently, did not just get a sudden, urgent need to view picture book art and abandon all other plans to drive to Hampshire's college as soon as possible--no, she's actually going to be portraying Beatrix Potter, whose books we're currently featuring, in a film that, unless it includes "Harry" or "Peter Rabbit: Uncut" somewhere in the title, probably isn't going to get me all that excited. I mean, I'll see it out of loyalty to Renée, since we're such good friends now, but the biopic craze is getting a little old. What's the fun in making a movie about things that actually happened? That completely rules out the possibility of killer robots and alien hookers, and if a movie doesn't have killer robots and alien hookers, I'm not really sure what it does have. Though Beatrix Potter was apparently kind of weird: she kept a diary in this secret code they didn't break until 20 years after her death and she spent 10 years of her life working on scientifically accurate paintings of various types of fungi, which sounds like the behavior of an alien hooker to me. I'm totally planning to do the secret code thing, but when they break it after I die all it will say is, "My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard" and then they'll have to spend another 20 years figuring out what the hell that means and then they'll drown themselves because they've just spent 40 years deciphering a Kelis song. I think I'm going to pass on the scientifically accurate fungi paintings, though, because if I had to think up the world's worst punishments ever, painting scientifically accurate fungi would score only slightly lower than having my toes and fingers nibbled off by angry molerats while getting a sensual back massage from Dick Cheney.
Of the events of the past few days, the Renée sighting is probably the one most worth mentioning, and I wasn't even there for it, so I think you can safely assume that finals week means life stops being interesting and starts being "that time between 2-hour power naps." People from those crazy other colleges where they have "tests" and things assume that the last few weeks here must be a breeze since we lack final exams, but I feel it's way easier to take a test than write thirteen 20-page papers on the life cycles of Mongolian marmosets. Well, okay, I don't even know why anyone would ever require you to write thirteen papers about Mongolian marmosets, and I'm not even sure there are marmosets in Mongolia, but you get the idea. Projects and papers are far more time-consuming than tests. Way more rewarding, in my opinion, but much with the crazy-making. I just turned in my portfolio for Lost in the Story today (ohhhh snap) but I have three papers due for Dangerous Books and a final essay and final exam for International Graphic Novel. So why am I updating my blog? Because I care more about your needs than my own, random member of the Internet. I'm looking out for you, and in no way using this forum purely to procrastinate. This is all for you, nameless, faceless perusers of college-age girls' blogs (you perverted sketchballs).
Besides spending every waking minute contemplating how much I have yet to complete before I can go home and watch Degrassi: Next Generation for the rest of my existence, I'm starting to run out of food. I don't really want to do a grocery run, because I have less than a week left, so I've reverted to the scavenger lifestyle, which thus far seems to be working out well. Today, for instance, my professor brought in donuts, cider, and cookies to commemorate the last day of class, so I fully filled my carb and sugar quota for the day. Then when I got home, one of my modmates offered to make me sauceless pizza with cheese, broccoli, and carmelized onions, leading me to believe that whatever powers may be are prepared to provide me with sustenance for the next six days or so. I mean, I still have a cheese stick and some Jell-o mix in case I run into a rough spot, but I think it's going to work out. People like to cook for me--not necessarily because they really like me, but because they're afraid if I try to do it myself I might set myself on fire, and really, who wants to clean up that mess? I also slept until noon today, which I haven't done on a weekday in awhile, so it was a pleasant, unconscious trip down memory lane. (Wow, did anyone else just get a weird vision of a narcoleptic skipping merrily down the road? Because I totally did.) And there's that whole 'going to class" thing, too--yesterday Jeff and I did the usual bus ride to UMass, except we both had one of his iPod earbuds in our ears and silently danced and mouthed the words to Pink and Violent Femmes' songs, which made the Amherst students riding with us do that thing where you pretend crazy people don't exist. I think a lot of Amherst students just pretend Hampshire as a whole doesn't exist--like, when they drive past it they just go, "Oh! Look at that verdant, empty field!" and whenever they hear a Hampshire student talk they're like, "Hold on a minute, Edmund, did you hear something? Because I didn't." I base this wild assertion purely on my Hampshire-Amherst bus rides and the one Amherst party I ever went to, where people kept looking at me weird because I was drinking Yoo-hoo all night *they had a Yoo-hoo vending machine I was a little too excited about*, despite my explaining to them that it was chocolicious and refreshing. One girl actually asked me if my father owned Yoo-hoo (to be fair, she was very, very drunk) to which I responded, no, but I was pretty sure he owned a Yoo-hoo. Wow, if you type "Yoo-hoo" too many times, it really starts to freak you out. Yoo-hoo. Yoo-hoo. Yoo...hoo...Okay, that's a serious sign that it's time to work now.
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