As of late I have started to feel a sneaking suspicion that life is going okay. I’m doin’ it.. well, if not totally right, then certainly not wrong. I mean, it’s tiresome and generic in some bits and heartwrenching and terrible in others and I have already cried twice this week and stubbed my toe really badly at least once. (One of those crying moments, mind you, was at a particularly maudlin bit on Say Yes to the Dress when a new bride was talking about her mom. I had a fever at the time! And was living off applesauce! Don’t tell anyone, okay Internet?)

The thing is, okay, I’m probably never going to be an astronaut or a race car driver. I’m fairly certain a career in the National Ballet is out, and as of yet I haven’t shown any innate aptitude to work in the diplomatic corps aside from an appreciation of Thai food. (My inner three year old is pleased to note, however, that I could still technically become a princess. William, I’m lookin’ at you. Call me.)

However, I have a pleasing amount of good friends and about enough social drama to make for a mildly interesting sitcom episode, which is all I could ever ask for. (“It’s Sex in the City only in Vancouver and with sensible shoes and a whole lot more discussion about various kinds of elves!”) I have a career that I don’t hate, Pet Shop Boys tickets, and a burgeoning New Wave station on Pandora. As my dear Mother would say: at least I have all my fingers and toes.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m still a neurotic, vodka-swilling layabout who makes awkward life choices and has poor taste in pants and at the end of the day would probably rather be playing Plants vs. Zombies than almost anything else, but I guess lately I’ve felt that it’s not a bad gig, as far as they go.

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Here’s a nice review of the first volume of Empowered, Adam Warren’s fetishy twist on cheesecake superheroines. I picked this up based on recommendations from a couple of friends, and at first I loathed it. “Oh great”, I thought, “a comic about the trials and tribulations of being a gorgeous ditzy blonde. Boo flipping hoo.” I have to admit, though, that after about half of the book Emp kinda grew on me. Sure, she’s a superhero and supermodel and often kinda naked, but I can sympathize with being a manhandled self-depreciating screw-up who just wants everyone to get along. (So, yes, feminists can enjoy Empowered.)

I don’t have enough Twitter followers to work for BestBuy.

We have lasers!!!!!!!!!!

This is very geeky and very specific to Canadians, but: How to use your SSH account and PuTTY to tunnel to Pandora from Canada. It works for Hulu, too! Take that, international intellectual property laws.

Oh hey, Seanbaby still writes for the internet. Rad. This time it’s on Understanding the World of Warcraft Using Super Mario Brothers. (Note: vulgar and probably not amusing unless you play WoW.)

Work is boring, I’m on vacation next week, and I’m sick, so I’ve spent the day reading other people’s Twitter and journal archives. (Oh, who am I kidding.. I never do work if I can help it. Today is particularly bad, though. It took me 30 minutes to gather the mental strength to send an email.)

I’ve often been tempted to post journal-y stuff here, with two problems:

1) People with different access levels to my life will see things that I perhaps do not want them to see. There are some topics that my dad for example is probably happy not knowing, not to mention strangers. Also, people might then ASK me about said information, and I am paradoxically driven to both write things and to loathe perceived invasions of my privacy. It’s impractical, but what can I say.

2) People will know I am writing about them. While I understand that I’m just using this space as a way to practice writing and work through issues, they may not see publication of their character in such a forgivable light. In fact, I can think of a couple of times that I’ve received very cross emails from people I know that start, “So I was reading your blog…”. I look forward to one day when I finally finish my book (note: this will never happen) and then sit back and see who recognizes themselves. “Oh, that character that looks like you and has a name like yours and is a callous wench? Homage! You’re welcome!”

Not to mention all my journally entries — and there are many of them, lying dormant in the drafts folder — are “woe is me” to the extreme. Does everyone realize that I am likely freaking out? What kind of person do I really want to be? Is that a dumb question to be asking yourself in your 30s? Am I overthinking this? Is this all there is to life? What if I’m like Neo in The Matrix only remarkably lamer, never realizing my true latent super power of making people happy or folding precision origami cranes or something? Why must the marketing blond in the next cube make that HORRIBLE CRUNCHING NOISE EVERY DAY AT 10AM AND OH GOD LIFE IS SO CRUEL.

I also watched Wanted this week, which was a mistake, granted, and the ending confused me. I think it was rather aggressively saying that we all need to take control of our humdrum drone lives and enact elaborate plans to kill our enemies using giant guns and impossible slow motion car acrobatics. (Hello, I do not even DRIVE.) It reminded me of when I first saw Fight Club and I while I appreciated the sentiments in that film I also thought, “Running around blowing stuff up and causing anarchy and being fabulous is all very nice, but if I destroy my IKEA bookshelves where will I keep my back issues of Spy?” Answer that one, Palahniuk.

Upon reflection, “adult life crisis” movies only seem to come in two flavors: you either shoot people and blow shit up, or you die à la American Beauty. It is something of an unpleasant choice. There needs to be some artistic middle ground wherein a person in their 30s realizes that life is kind of bleh, so maybe they dye their hair and meet a boy and make some friends and try to be a little more self-confident and have a few hundred drinks and muddle through.

Hmm. BRB, writing unpublished draft. Or blowing something up. Either way, I’ll be sure to avoid chronicling the results here in full emo glory.