Monday night, I read a rather unusual post at the Film Score Monthly message board. One of the posters had discovered a treasure trove of Varese Sarabande CDs on sale from projects over the last decade (and a small fraction from before that time). Here comes the punchline: they were not to be found in some chain store that specializes in music, but in Family Dollar.

(For a number of reasons, be it the feng shui of its wares or the smell, Family Dollar - hell, any store with the word 'Dollar' in its name - gives me the fucking creeps...and yet, over the last couple of days, I've been to three locations in my town looking for Varese CDs. I've bought three so far and - much to my deep regret - there are more titles yet to get.)

This is part of a much bigger problem I've been facing in my town: the lack of soundtracks in supposed music retailers. Borders is dead, FYE (save for one mostly picked-over location within reasonable driving distance) is dead, there's only one Barnes and Noble with a (weak) soundtrack selection and the local record store is an absolute joke in terms of new and used soundtracks. It's getting so I have to do all my shopping online and the prices/shipping fees give me, inveterate penny-pincher that I am, migraines.

Seriously, when Family Dollar is the only game in town to scratch a soundtrack-buying itch, you know the universe fucked up somewhere.

Couldn't think of a cute video clip to post which (partially) explains why there was no Thanksgiving post yesterday. My sisters came to visit. I showed them (and my mother) pics I took in Manhattan. We ate dinner (with beer-battered bread - made with ginger ale - and artichoke dip...holy shit, is this good stuff!). What more do I say?

My sister treated my parents and I to a round of Old Country Buffet yesterday morning. I chased my two helpings of breakfast with a brief bit of lunch and some pudding(s; chocolate and banana) and cake for dessert.

That's always a sucky feeling when you've eaten too much and can't go on despite how good the food is...compounded by when you're starving and think to yourself, 'I wish I ate more during that trip'. I hate feeling like that.

The latest chapter in my inexorable disappearance from this mortal plane: I'm sitting at the table in the breakroom when the damn table collapses. I'm struggling to get the thing level only to find that the part that collapsed was held together with masking tape. Nothing like quality control, you know? But that's not the funny part. That came when a co-worker (whom I not-so-affectionally refer to as Tammy Tutone; if you saw her, you'd understand) decided to just sit there like nothing happened; like I wasn't even there.

Times like this that I'm convinced that I died years ago, but no one has had the testicular matter to tell me.

Something that has long bugged the piss out of me about "Jeopardy!" and hopefully, I'm not alone: in Final Jeopardy, a contestant writes down an answer that they know to be wrong (or nothing) and they still wager a shitload of money. They may as well send them home, all expenses paid, on a short yellow bus.

Okay, are we running out of ten-dollar bills? I was just at JCPenney's buying some new socks (which feel really comfortable, BTW) and I hand the sales rep a twenty expecting a ten, but what do I get? Two fives. The same thing has happened at various times over the last few weeks. Seriously, what's going on?

To any and all minors who read this: always be sure to leave home while you're still in your twenties. Otherwise, your parents will drive you fucking crazy.

I would've killed myself years ago if it didn't involve so much work and pain.

I merely bring this up because I was at the movies today (In Time, for the curious). On the way to my seat, I pass a goddess: red hair, dark eyes, porcelain skin and not shy about dressing up as a schoolgirl, even though she looked to be a few years out of school. Also, she was there alone. In between losing myself in the plot, I steal glances at her and think about what I want to say to the potential mother of my children. The film ends. The lights go up. I approach her. My debilitating shyness kicks in. I freeze. She walks away. Out of my life...forever. Within range of a goddess and I let her slip through my fingers.

I'm definitely selling my soul at 35. I have no other option.