Movie Distraction Goodness

Just last night, I revised my About Page to say that in the interest of being my authentic depressed self, I would not try to put a positive spin on this blog. I stand by that goal; I promise to endeavor to be depressing. But…what’s the harm in sprinkling a little bit of light here and there? Hence my new category Points of Light.

60C2A0804F4C4E91A95631530316D0C1Movies shall fall under said category. Movies are points of light in my life. I love movies. I love going to the theatre and being shuffled along a long line of movie-going strangers. I love the smell of ridiculously over-priced popcorn. I love that it’s one of the few activities where I can be by myself and not feel too alone. I love the anonymity of it–sitting under a cloak of darkness, all eyes on a giant glowing screen.

I also find that it’s one of the few ways I’m able to relate to, you know, the humans. This has led to some very unproductive days, but it has also contributed to why I am still almost sane, or at the very least, not yet institutionalized.

And that leads me to my next point: movies are a great distraction. There are some days (okay, many days) when I just need to be distracted from myself. I know, you could argue that one should face their problems head on–that distractions only pull you farther away from your goals. But the thing is, it’s my Monster D that drags me away from the things that I care about, the things that used to matter to me. It’s my Monster D that tries to destroy any goals I might have. So it makes sense that distracting the monster would actually help me, even if just a little bit.

I think I’m going to compile a list of my favourite movies. Yes, I will make movie posts a regular thing, if only to ensure there is something to put under Points of Light.


Basement Apartment

I’m having difficulty coping with living in a basement apartment. It’s not as though it’s new to me. I’ve been living in this humble abode for almost a year now, and before that it was another dungeon for almost a year.

This renewed dedication to being a basement-dweller isn’t really by choice. After university days, I thought I was through with basements forever. I thought, hooray for me, it’s onward and upward from here, literally. But we don’t always get what we want, what we think we deserve, what we think time owes us. I’m not allowed to rule out living in someone’s basement for the simple fact that housing costs are ridiculous and my wage is barely enough to live on. So here I sit. My sanity grasping at straws, my patience wearing really, really thin.

It’s so frustrating. I know I may have sensory issues (thanks to self-diagnosing on the web, yay!), and I know that the people living above me are not doing anything unreasonable. But I live here too, I pay money to live here too, I pay them to live here too, and I think that means that I shouldn’t be expected to just tolerate constant overhead noise on a bloody hardwood floor. Why do people who rent their basements think it’s okay to have hardwood floors? Not to mention, they have a whole bloody house to be annoying in, why do they have to do it directly above my little bachelor suite?

I’m especially perturbed these days, as it would seem that their little bundle of joy just received a gift for his first birthday. Sounds like one of these fucking things:

auditory torture

auditory torture

So what’s an anxiety-ridden introvert to do?


I’m so tired of just coping.