good fun without the sun

You may have noticed I'm not the kind of blogger who writes too much about my social life. There are several reasons for this. For one, I'm surprisingly a very private person when it comes down to it, as are my closest friends (surprisingly I do have some). And secondly, I mostly refrain from talking about my social life because it would sound a little something like this: I acquired Netflix this weekend and watched five films back-to-back. (I didn't say most of my friends weren't streamed movies online.)

But don't worry. It's not as pathetic as it sounds. See, I'm not so much of a recluse that I completely decided to shut myself off from humanity this weekend. Nope, I twittered about it! Wait. So that is as pathetic as it sounds. Actually it's more pathetic because it sounded like this: "Joined Netflix ergo will be watching movies all day between naps. Stay tuned for several 140-word film reviews..."

And just like a can of beans to a hobo (or, um, me), I didn't disappoint. Of course, considering I fell asleep through large chunks of almost all the movies I watched, the reviews went something like this: "No Country for Old Men -- Not as good as the book. On the bright side, I only fell asleep during it once! Next up : Bottle Rocket." Or this: "Not sure why Bottle Rocket is supposedly a cult classic. There were a few good 1-liners, but overall=yawn. Next up a docu called Jesus Camp."

And that's when I woke up. See, not that I would ever presume to know for sure, but I think it's safe to deduce that Jesus Camp would scare Jesus. It certainly scared me.



But I'm not even most scared of the fact that these people believe we're in some sort of "God War." I'm mostly just freaked out by the length and width of that kid Levi's rat-tail. Now that's battle-worthy.

And speaking of battle-worthy, it's probably time I declare a half-hearted war on my self-created image of a wayward loner who spends her weekends loafing around pantsless covered in graham crackers crumbs, chocolate bar wrappers and microwaved marshmallow remnants, which, by the way, is not a good idea if you want to be able to ever wash your dish again. That sh*t stuck to the plate tighter than Sea-Bond to your grandma's dentures. But at least I didn't get any on my pants (marshmallow, not Sea-Bond). Although my adult bib is a mess (with both marshmallow and, inexplicably, Sea-Bond -- who's been using my adult bib?! SVEN?!).

Anyway, I chose to let Sunday pass me by while I watched slept through not only No Country For Old Men, Bottle Rocket and Jesus Camp, but also Transsiberian and The King of Kong (which is really good, by the way) because I was exhausted from the previous few days, which I split between hanging out in and around beautiful Charlottesville, Va., and working at the sex shop in douchey DC.

Clearly, one of those activities was superior to the other and since this blog is called The Anti DC, I won't even bother going into which activities I preferred more.

The best part of my sojourn out to Virginia though occurred on Thursday morning when I happened upon Wonder Nut Farms.


Which is located just west of BumpASS.


God bless this country.



Uh, or not. Wait. Nevermind. Harry Potter, Public God Enemy No. 1, is British. This country is still safe.



Wait. No. We're f*cked. And I'm not even talking about the total rejection of science so much as that kid's rat-tail again. Yikes, in Jesus' name...