I know I’ve only seen clips from the movie, but I thought I had read the book – or at least started to – as a teen. As soon as I realized this wasn’t the case, I added “IT” to my TBR pile and decided to pick it up last week when a good scare sounded like the perfect way to get my mind off real-life worries.
It was good, but – I hope this doesn’t make me a psychopath – I didn’t find it scary. Like, at all. I kept waiting fir something really scary, but it just didn’t happen for me. I had more complex fears than clowns or mummies as a kid, like It said adults have and why kids were better targets, so I wonder if that has anything to do with my lack of being scared.
I did find the idea behind attacking kids because they were easy prey to be sick and twisted, but it was more of an observance than a reaction.
I liked the book; I just didn’t love it. I picked it up hoping for a good scare but was disappointed when that isn’t what I got. I probably would have loved it had it scared me.
Beep.
If you haven’t figured it out already, I’m fairly active on Twitter. (If, in fact, you haven’t figured it out, slide your eyes to the right of this here page.) Be it lack of time, lack of content or lack of desire, I just don’t have it in me to write blog entries. Perhaps I’ll revisit it in the future. Perhaps not. Follow me on Twitter if you’d like to continue acting as e-voyeur.
And, as always, you can call me. My number’s on the wall: 867-5309.
I’ve been pondering truth a lot these past couple days – probably because it was a main theme in the last two books I read.
I wonder how honest people really are. But wondering that is pointless because there’s no way to answer that.
Then it made me wonder how honest I am.
I’m honest with my opinions. I’m honest with my emotions (my face is a dirty traitor, so there’s no point in hiding them). I’m honest when I’m asked things.
But only to a point.
I’ve always held in a lot of what eats at me because I don’t want to burden others with my problems. They have their own issues, I tell myself. They don’t need mine as well.
But I’m a phony. I welcome others to open up to me, and I do my best to help with whatever they’re facing. No matter the difficulty, I am willing to face it with them. I consider it part of being a friend.
But more often than not, I deny those close to me the opportunity to do the same – to be a there-for-me-no-matter-what friend.
Is it because I don’t trust them? No. Is it because I don’t want them to know? Definitely not – in fact, it usually comes out in some capacity. But even then, I work hard to gloss over the issue and insist they not trouble themselves over lil ol’ me.
My first instinct tells me it’s a classic case of a lacking self-esteem. My second instinct says “pssshhh” to the first and says it’s just part of me wanting to be a good friend and protect those close to me – even when it’s myself. And my third instinct just says I’m crazy and think entirely too much.
After staring at the screen for five minutes, I’ve hit a writer’s block. This entry is incomplete and somewhat unclear, and the editor in me says it’s blasphemy to click the “publish” button. The side of me questioning my honesty says it’s exactly the right thing to do.
I started reading “Fourth Comings” by Megan McCafferty last night and read this in the very first chapter:
“‘I’m Jenn,’ I lied. ‘With two n‘s.’
‘Two n‘s?’ … ‘And how do you defend this blatant overuse of unnecessary consonants?'”
SEE? Now here’s the funny – the character’s actual name is Jessica, and her nickname is Jess. But nowhere in the book is there conversation about blatant overuse of unnecessary consonants in that name.
I can’t honestly tell you what point I’m trying to make (or if I was even attempting to make one in the first place). In fact, I’ve confused myself even further.
Yikes.
Since the dawn of time (or since the dawn of my memory, which is pretty much the same thing in a self-righteous fashion), I’ve argued “Jenn” is a dumb (and I might have said “incorrect” at various times) way to spell the first-syllable nickname for “Jennifer.”
I had an epiphany today.
“Jess” is the accepted (and only, to my knowledge) form of the first-syllable nickname for “Jessica.” Not Jes.
So why does “Jen” exist?
I’ve argued so many times (this is so dumb) that my name is not Jen-N (don’t ask me to type this out phonetically. I tried and failed. Ask me in person next time.). However, after knowing too many Jesses for me to keep track of, I never once questions why I didn’t think to call them “Jes-S” in keeping with my ridiculous two-N argument.
So now my shorthand name makes no spelled-out sense to me, and if you know me and my crazy tendencies with proper spelling, you know this DRIVES ME CRAZY.
I had a hard enough time taking on a new last name when I got married. I just don’t see how I can adopt this properly spelled name as my own and not feel like a poser. A properly spelled poser, but a poser nonetheless.
Sweet irony for the girl obsessed with correct spellings. Karma is kicking my red-sharpie-wielding ass today.
Of course, there is no real right or wrong way to spell names, is there? I could spell my name “Dgehnn” and call it correct and no one could say otherwise. I could. But that’s dumb, too.
So why does this epiphany bother me? Who knows. It could be I’m on the hunt to collect every possible annoyance I can lately. It could be karma. It could be me being too idle for my own good.
At any rate, it’s a good thing I don’t usually write out “Jen” and most often stick with “Jenny,” a name which has its own (pointless) spelling arguments for another day.
A person with this many thoughts should have been named Mary. Then maybe I would think about things that are of actual importance.
