In which there are some events of the not-so-stunningly-fantastic sort. It’s not that interesting. You may talk among yourselves.

Saturday I had the first roll of film shot through The Brick developed. Several of them turned out really well, particularly considering that the rangefinder window is filthy and I can’t see through it, and that I totally guess on aperture and exposure times. (The roll is here if you wanna take a look at what a 1962 Argus C3 shoots like.)

I had my hair colored Saturday afternoon. No more roots! (I also had my eyebrows waxed. Best use of seven dollars EVER.)

Saturday night Teh BF and I went to bed – and to sleep – at 8:30. It’s a totally rockstar lifestyle, I’m telling you.

Sunday we went to brunch at The Oasis with family: G’ma, my brother, my aunt and uncle, two of their friends, my aunt’s mom, and KJ’s mom. The food sucked – the Caesar salad was fishy, the eggs were green, and the hash browns were those awful frozen fried potatoes with green and red peppers, and the rest of the buffet was FODA¹ so naturally I couldn’t eat it – but the company was congenial.

Sunday afternoon we spent at my place; KJ watched golf with G’ma while I installed the giant hand-me-down flat monitor he gave me and watched a couple of episodes of Firefly and Torchwood on it upstairs. For dinner, I made black bean soup. He took off around seven; I did laundry and watched Mystic River and went to bed early.

I’m not sure if it’s blogging or aging, but though the agency of one or both I’ve finally relaxed enough to be utterly vacuous. I no longer worry about coming off as deep and self-reflective; I post utterly vapid shit with no greater meaning whatsoever and feel pretty good about it. I talk about getting my eyebrows waxed, for chrissakes. Is this what they mean by ‘mellowing with age’?

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¹ Flesh of Dead Animal.