In Soviet Russia, brain scatters you.

Lately, life has found me insanely busy all the time. Seriously busy. So busy, ants see me run inside and come back outside and leave and come back and they look to one another and go, "Holy shit, that girl needs to take some time to just chill." And then they're whipped by their muscley ant superiors and forced to carry things 1000x their body weight up and down the anthill for eternity.


Because of this craziness (purging my house of priceless sentimental things that I NEED junk, working on training the "un-adoptable" puppy that was almost euthanized and has instead become Lucy's new sister, painting a giant squid mural and sculpting a bust of John Wayne [among other bizarre artistic pursuits], getting my shit together to further my education, working, being easily distracted while trying to do ALL of these things simultaneously...) I haven't really had anything interesting to discuss at length. Rather, I haven't been able to come across anything interesting, because when I do I just yell at it to get the fuck out of my way because I'm late for everything, always, and probably more late than normal at the moment. BUT I do have a million things to discuss briefly before I change the subject entirely and am accused of "rambling" (I don't ramble, for the record. It's called going off on a tangent. It's probably OBVIOUSLY a scholastically recognized literary device).
  
What I'm trying to explain is that the next few weeks' worth of posts may vary between two-sentence anecdotes, to entire novels about the fur ball of accumulated dog hair I found under my couch that resembles Chuck Norris' chin without the rage or tiny chin-fist. For now, however, I want to talk about something potentially tragic amazing.

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I don't think anyone will ever be able to top the excitement I felt when I realized that THE ENTIRE SERIES of The X-Files was in the instant queue on Netflix. I was certain, as soon as I stumbled upon the 1990s scy-fy science fiction goodness, that that second of realization was to be a defining moment in my life. I mean, come on. I watched sexy Fox Mulder The X-Files all throughout my childhood, and NOW I get to watch the whole series, chronologically, as an adult. Freaking SWEET. Right? Wrong. Kind of. (I mean, it still stars David Duchovny, who is one hot mo-fo. And if you disagree, I- .... Actually, never mind. No one could disagree with this).


Okay, enough drooling. Moving on. So you know when you had a show or movie that you LOVED as a kid, and then you watch it as an adult and wonder how you could have ever suspended your disbelief SO MUCH that one day in a hypothetical world where s/he exists god is sitting on a cloud somewhere and he sees something to his left and is all, "What the fuck is that?" and it's all, "I'm the disbelief of some retarded kid down there that's enjoying the shit out of the 1971 classic, Bedknobs and Broomsticks, despite the COMPLETE lack of concern for visual effects or an even SLIGHTLY realistic storyline. So if you don't mind, I'm just going to chill here for a while. Got any booze?" At which point god decides s/he's had enough and banishes this ballsy disbelief from Cloud City, but that's okay because The Empire takes it over, anyway. Thanks for the warning, Calrissian. 

Well, it would seem that that's exactly what I did with the X-Files as a kid, too. It wasn't awful or anything, but man. The pilot episode was brutal. Maybe I didn't recognize the bad 80s synthesizer because I was 6? 8? kid-aged, because if the theme song to every kid television show isn't an indication of the easily-satiated music tastes of adolescents, it'll only take 20 minutes with The Wiggles to convince you. But it wasn't just the horrendous music, either. The acting was worse than my 4th grade production of The Crazy Night Before Christmas, which was not only 50% ad-libbed thanks to an abundance of easily distracted 9-year-olds, but also included a musical number about pre-criminal Martha Stewart, as well as "Are You Ready for Some Turkey" sung to the 1995 theme from Monday Night Football (100% true story, by the way). Which also proves, yet again, that people don't develop good taste in music until after puberty. And some never develop good taste in music at all (I'm looking at you, every Country Music fan ever). 

Now, the pilot episode aired in the early, EARLY '90s, so I can cut it some slack. Bad music? To be expected. Bad clothes? I can look away (except for that long-sleeve, stone-washed, denim button down shirt. God, Mulder, what were you thinking? YOUR NAME IS FOX. DRESS LIKE IT).The poor acting I'll attribute to the Citron and cranberry being pushed to a critical mindset after being shocked by the clothes and music. However, there were some things that had me halfway between laughing at the absurdity of it, and crying because a show that held such mystery for me as a child had been reduced to an amateur attempt at a science fiction drama, complete with over-acting and a thrift-store wardrobe budget. 


The future is looking bleak for Mulder and Scully. But it has to get better. The awesomosity (and, for the record, awesomosity is, in fact, a word. Being recognized by Merriam Webster isn't the end-all be-all when it comes to legitimacy of vocabulary) of the show can't be something that only existed in my inexperienced, childish mind, right? I want to believe.


I'll leave you with this gem, straight from last night's pilot episode:


 Mulder and Scully are herded out of the ominous woods and back to their car by Cliche Town Leader and his Cliche Shotgun.
 Scully holding up something in her hand: But Mulder, what IS this? 
Mulder: I don't know, Scully. Where did you find that?
Scully: In the woods. It was ALL OVER the ground!
They exchange shocked expressions, and the scene fades out to a poorly-played, yet eerie synthesizer.


Me: Um, what the hell was that?

C.a.s.p.:Was there something in the sand she was holding?

Me: Not that I saw. I was hoping you saw something. So... it was dirt?! 

C.a.s.p.: Yeah, I mean, that's all that I saw.

Me: He was all, "It's dirt, bitch. Get that shit outta my car." Dude, Scully tries too hard. "But.. but... it was ALL OVER THE GROUND!!!!"


C.a.s.p.: Yeah she does. Wait, what? Okay, now Mulder's watch just sent them 9 minutes into the future, and he's freaking out like Doc from Back to the Future. Wow. Actually, he should do impressions. That's dead-on.


Me: You could NOT fit a flux copassitor [side note: how the HELL do you spell copassoter? copposater? cupassator?  Okay, that is not a word, even by my standards...] into that watch. Even if you could, the cool digital read-out and the calculator and the heart rate monitor clearly take up too much space. 


C.a.s.p.: I'm not impressed. My watch can do that, AND it doesn't make me look like a tool. C.a.s.p. 1. Mulder, 0. 


 So, so so very sad. I'm off to find more distractions from my distractions, in hopes that I'll end up doing something that's actually on my to-do list, thinking I'm distracting myself from said list. I'll leave you with a photo of the Sperm Whale vs Giant Squid: An Epic Battle in Sheetrock, because its awesomosity (there's that word, again) will distract you from the downfall of The X-Files.