Grrmph. For no reason.

Tuesday, Nov. 28, 2006, 11:11 p.m.

I returned home from P.T. this morning (or, as you may remember it, the Mandatory Physical Fitness Session of Doom) at about 8, just as my roommate was heading out the door. She and her boyfriend were hastily loading up Crazy Motherfucking Cat in his little carrying case to bring him to the vet, where he was scheduled to be neutered.

My own morning -- which, thus far, had consisted of a hearty upper-body/ab workout (O abdominal muscles, why must you exist?) -- somehow seemed much better by comparison.

Feeling suddenly benevolent, I knelt lovingly beside Cat, petting his silky, shedding fur.

"Hey, Cat! You're gonna get your balls cut off, yes you are!" I cooed.

My roommate's boyfriend whipped around.

"That is SO not cool. She has been doing that to him ALL MORNING, and it is making him sad."

My roommate (let's just call her "Jentastic" to make things easier) obviously took my side, as she and I have been the ones sitting front-row for the Neurotic Cat And His Zany Exploits Which Include Nasty Stank show.

"Say goodbye to your balls, Cat!" we sang, as soothingly as possible, toward the carrier.

As the door closed behind them, I could swear that my abs no longer hurt.

Dear Cat,

We're sorry that you hate us now. But not really.

I spent the majority of today much like I've spent the majority of the past week or so -- gradually coming to grips with the realization that I will be twenty-seven by the time I get out of the Army. I realize that that's not exactly old, but when I joined at nineteen, I guess I had some kind of crazy idea that I'd be able to get out after five years and still be able to fart around for a few years before Adulthood set in.

I suppose I shouldn't be bitter, so I won't be. But this sudden turn of events is a dandy excuse to act like I am bitter while I'm at work. Pleasantries, while not completely absent from my repertoire, are no longer expected, so I have mostly replaced them with grunts and frustrated howls. Those co-workers who are more likely to empathize with my plight generally get to see what's left of my shiny-happy side, while superiors and outsiders tend to look at me and see Medusa, the Gorgon Queen of Public Affairs.

It's working out pretty well, really. They say "Good morning!" and I say either "Grrmphk!" or "Pfft," and then we all continue on with our day, which is certain to not suck, we hope.

And now it's time for one of my favorite diary segments: Movie Reviews Which You Did Not Ask For.

Stranger Than Fiction
Because I love Emma Thompson unconditionally, there was really never any possibility that I'd feel anything below indifference for this movie. If you enjoy her, you will enjoy it. Will Ferrell actually surprised me in that he was running around in his underwear onscreen for exactly zero minutes. It had been awhile since I saw a new comedy that was actually reasonably intelligent, but this one broke my streak of the "it's funny because they said 'poop'!" genre.

For Your Consideration
I hate to say it about a Christopher Guest film, but this one was kind of disappointing. Eugene Levy and Catherine O'Hara were brilliant, as always, but for some reason, they and the rest of the cast just didn't meet my expectations. Maybe I was having a Dumb Day and just didn't think funny stuff was funny for that particular hour and a half, but I'm kind of leaning toward the movie really not being all that great. Also, it led to me having to explain key facets of Judaism to Husband, who didn't really appreciate being condescended to in the middle of the grocery store.

And that is all I can offer for now, because the TV is on and it has sucked away the rest of my after-10-p.m. reserve brain. However, if you have seen any view-worthy movies lately, please share, because if I have to do the zombie-plod back and forth down Blockbuster's New Releases wall one more time, I might cry a little.