More for the Trash Can.

I’ve grown a little tired of writing trivial and mostly pointless blog posts, so I busied myself with alternative occupations tonight – like reading one of my own longer short stories. It wasn’t very good. In fact, I felt chastened to discover that my writing style in those days was substantially poorer than it is in my trivial and mostly pointless blog posts. As an HSP forever struggling with The Issues, it didn’t do much for my mood, but anyway…

… what next? I read up on Crimson Peak. I saw its forthcoming release advertised on a billboard and was enthused by the fact that it was directed by Guillermo del Toro of Pan’s Labyrinth fame, which is quite some recommendation. In order to remember the title for later reference, I envisaged the Matterhorn bathed in the light of a red sunset, only to be irritated when I came to recall it and could only think of ‘Red Mountain’ which is an inferior brand of instant coffee. (Come to think of it, all instant coffee is inferior, but some of it especially so.) But I got there in the end and read a few pieces thrown up by a Google search.

There was much enthusiasm, not least from Stephen King who has seen the pre-release and says it’s ‘terrifying.’ Is that a reliable recommendation? Not really. Stephen King has been known to say some pretty silly things now and then (like his derivative assertion that adverbs should be banned) and is possibly easily terrified, although I did like what he said about fiction being the truth within the lie, an excuse I intend to cultivate since he’s older than me and consequently wiser.

So I watched the official trailer and wasn’t at all impressed. I saw nothing that could be remotely described as terrifying; what I saw was a catalogue of tired old horror clichés. But then, it was the official trailer, and official trailers are always composed of the poorest, or at least the most yawn-inducing, bits because they’re aimed at the lowest common denominator where the bulk of the money is. My judgement shall be reserved until the library has a copy and I can watch it on the cheap.

You see? Here I go again. I wish I could come up with something demented and interesting to say for a change. Which reminds me…

While prosecuting yet another of tonight’s alternative occupations, I discovered that The Borg is a far better writer than I am. She’s also a far better archaeologist, artist and knitter.

I hate hotels, especially opulent ones.

I’ve recently taken a shine to this: