I donât like writing in pen. Itâs against my severely regretful nature.
Over the weekend, we had 2 main movie-night flops, one at Jacobâs house and the other at Brettâs house. They always pick a movie that 3/4 of the people would rather use as a backdrop to fall asleep to. Or, you could be mortally devoted to the progression of the movie, as Sarah was, and launch bitter, relentless causticity into the atmosphere to combat the crazed laughter and riotous short-range snap-chatting coming from the Catherine-Shelby corner of the game room. Everyone else was sleeping.
The languorous, drowsy evening was topped off with a half-baked, starry-eyed suggestion of Dennyâs, and some sour classic Sarah remarks about Catherine & Iâs church attendance
The next day, there was another movie night put on at Brettâs house, another love-facilitative evening like the Cat/Jared days of summer, this time for D****** & G*******.
G****** put on the extended version of the Hobbit, so that was my cue to retire to the kitchen to soundly exhaust the Petersâ food supply and not have epic cinematic adventure give me a headache. Basically everyone but G & D followed suit, and I dined unhappily but ravenously on Muddy Buddies and Rosa milk, complaining about the fat & stuffing myself in equal measure. Sarah & I fashioned ourselves these excellent sandwiches with some chicken breast and cheese from the fridge and the most starchy pristine white bread. It was the Iron Kids brand, apparently Mikaylaâs, the same exact variety I too lived on as a kid.
We sat in the floor and continued to eat, Sarah in blanket head-to-toe, with me snap chatting Michelle Chavez and complaining while doing so, screaming maniacally at Catherine when I caught her sending another uncharacteristic, prim, conservative, nondescript snap to Garebear42.
Thereâs a series of Catherine-selfies, thin-lipped, forcibly wide-eyed pics with the camera strategically placed to create a balloon-shaped head. Which, in Catherine-land, is sooo desirable. In Catherine-land, being a thin-lipped, forehead-extensive chin-person is the unattainable perfection. Heheheheh. What she needs to understand is
As is tradition for most movie nights, Brett passed out on the bachelorâs couch, his waiflike form swaddled in one of Natalieâs fleece-throws. And at the end of the movie, it was about time for everyone to be home, & after some attempts by G, Brett finally got up, still swaddled, moving torpidly in that tired-Brett haze, slower than slow-motion, unnecessarily, exaggeratedly languid. As if his sole purpose was to portray what it means to be the essence of ~ pure drowsiness -
He put on his Nikes, still in that sluggish hazy way, and he kinda stood up & got a look in his eye, and before a word came out of his mouth we knew he was just gonna say something quintessentially, extra Brett-ish. He stood there, 1 blue-black Nike halfway on, and spoke, eyes not even partly open, looking reasonably very high, very baked, & said,
âItâs a new day, a new eraâŚ.â
Just as we expected. We kind of died laughing for a few minutes, to cope with how great & perfectly classic that was, perfectly - utterly Brett.
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