Stuff Rachel Fucking Hates

Crying. In the past 24 hours I have seen both MILK and the Vagina Monologues, and I am feeling just about done with the emotional rollercoaster. It should be noted that my boyfriend went with me to both, and that in the future I plan to make this up to him by planning activities where neither of us cry. (Heather was there too. She is way better at not crying, though, because she is a real man.)

Not Being Married to Emile Hirsch. Aside from all of the generally good things about MILK (the long-overdue public recognition of an American hero, James Franco, Diego Luna’s ridiculous accent), by far the best was everything about Emile Hirsch in that movie. I mean, did you see him dance? Did you see his adorable glasses/adorable haircut combo? He was funny and sweet and acerbic and dyke-friendly and all that your party would ever need to be a roaring success. He is, tragically, not bonded to me in holy wedded matrimony. Fuck you too, Emile/Cleve Jones.

How Freaking Long Midnight’s Children Is. For serious, just Book One of this three-part novel is longer than anything I will ever be able to write. I can understand how the vast sweeping saga of what has taken place in India even just after independence is enough to fill several books, but for real, Salman Rushdie, I have to take your book to the gym with me to come close to getting this reading done.

Sandstorm. This is maybe an unpopular opinion, but I think as of last night I have heard that song one too many times. Let it stop now.

Fucking flaky friends. Matt, I don’t think you read this, but I don’t care. This one is for you. After all we’ve been through – maniac rickshaw drivers, interminable train rides, that sketchy-ass hotel in Anjuna, malai kofta in half the states in the country – and you freaking fly to LA instead of just hopping on a Greyhound to visit me. LA is so far away! And it is not where I live! We fucking planned this out! You were going to visit me and eat gulab jamun and finally someone besides Batia would understand why pounding my chest and grunting “Singh is Kinng!” is hilarious. You know what, fuck you too. I’m going to eat all this gulab jamun by myself. All of it.

The pants I am wearing. I swear to God these fit three days ago. What the fuck?

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1 Comment

Filed under Rachel

One response to “Stuff Rachel Fucking Hates

  1. Heather

    I tried to read Midnight’s Children when I was in London, but I just couldn’t do it. kudos for trying.

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