Loose Cans

I'm sitting at the computer in the hostel, very much in Cork, having paid a euro for 15 minutes of internet fix. I just played four ultimate games, 45 minutes apiece, three of them back-to-back-to-back. But there is something I was dying to put up here since last night when I found out about it: TCD has two teams, 1 and 2. 1 is obviously the experienced one, the really good team. I'm not on it. But there is a very good reason why:

I'm Captain for 2. It may not sound huge at first, but it basically means they just put the next 4.5 years of ultimate at TCD into my hands. There was no question that I could have made 1, but it was generally agreed that this was the best thing to do. Much, much more on this later, but I only have no minutes left, so I have to post this and run.

Brief news flash because rather a lot has happened in the past hour and a half: as I was walking around the southside, trying to find something remotely affordable to eat for lunch, I remembered that Caitriona (Ka-TREE-na, remember?) had remarked on this place called Lemon, and that its mention had aroused fond memories of swirling dowels through batter and burning my fingertips on hot griddles and jerky customers and shit pay and bad hours and so of course I went and filled out a job application at a creperie. Fuck. Mike, shut up. It's an easy job and I need the income. I wouldn't start till January, and I'm not legally allowed to work more than 20 hours a week, but hey, if I can pull in €70 or €100 a week, I'm doing pretty good.

I can't believe I did that.

In other news, I just got a call from Tom McMorrow, the VP of the Phil. I had a debate yesterday on canceling third world debt, and because I spoke for only three of five minutes, I didn't make it to the next round. But I just found out that actually, I did make it to the quarterfinals, whoopee, and that my debate's on tuesday at 4pm, and I'm debating AGAINST what is potentially the easiest proposition in the world: this house would legalize prostitution. I'm fucked. I should go do some research...if youse know what I mean. Any ideas, send them along.

Have a lovely weekend. I'll be back on sunday or monday. Mwah!

Mom Finds Out About Blog.

Heading off in a few hours to the ultimate intervarsities in Cork. Should be high-quality craic. We're pitched as the best team in Ireland, and are looking at a possible TCD-UCD final, which would be epic (Ben, you will note how rarely that word has been used lately; not more than five times in two months). But I really don't have much to do until then. I'll go get lunch soon, methinks.

Last night we had a session at Alexandra college, which is girls' school down the road from halls. We were there last week; you may remember my bitching about blood all down my leg. It's still a problem. It hurts like hell and I can't really bend it. So back we went last night. There weren't many there: a few TCD, a few UCD; 10 on the field in toto. But there was a very good reason for the low turnout: I have never, in my entire life, seen filthier, more furious weather. Cold as Cocytus, rain stinging like hell, winds up to 30mph (there were massive 90mph gales all along the coast last night; they had to cancel ferry service). Perfect ultimate weather. The wind would routinely pick a stationary frisbee off the ground (which is next to impossible) and blew it merrily down the field. Hammers were out of the question, hucks were strictly forbidden, and just fucking catching the disc was a haphazard thing. It was insane. And we played in this for an hour, until they turned the lights out on us. Furthermore, I had already been outside for an hour previous to the game because Andrew, a visiting from Carnegie Melon, and I had arrived at 6:30, thinking, foolishly, that you know, maybe they were going to start at the time Tom had told us in the email. Oh well. Not so much. Poo. So we walked down Milltown Road for 45 minutes trying to find a bar. Shockingly, there were none to be found (though a'course if we'd'a turned right, 'stead'a left, we might'a found th'Droppin' Well, which I knowed was there, but didn' wanna go to so much). So we damn near froze to death. Good time had by all. Though if the weather in Cork is that bad, I may just kill myself.

And we have broken the thousand mark! At last check, we're up to 1 042 hits. Sha-ZAM!

Having just returned from a poetry lecture, which of course got me all good and fired up, and having two and a half hours to kill before I get on the bus for Cork, I have decided to do a very rare thing, and that is address the comments in Blogistan proper, and not in their own little commentiverse.

So Anna: Kamala, you know perfectly well, doesn't exist. Because Kamala can have neither split ends nor herpes. So it is with the Kiss. There is no Kiss. There is only a kiss.

Now Ben: The kiss itself is not a message, because a kiss, qua kiss, has no meaning. There are three main elements in this system: The kisser, the kissee, and the kiss. This is the procedure: The kisser uses any and all available technical knowledge to shape the kiss, which has no intrinsic definition beyond the encounter of two mouths, into as precise a thing as possible. The point of this is to guide the response of the kissee. Until that response is factored in, we are still treating the kiss as an object. Lips on lips. Words on a page. But now the kissee affects two levels of stimulation: first, s/he recognizes that this is a kiss. This stimulates vaguely and uncommunicably. Then (though it's not really sequential; the latter sensation is compounded to the former) s/he READS the kiss. Which is to say interprets it. Which is to say criticizes it. Because like the man says (and I know certain persons here have a li'l affinity for mister Prudefrock), Criticism is as inevitable as breathing.

But it is not until we factor in the kissee's response that we may even begin to consider feeling or emotion (because these are two separate things). "The observer infects the observed with his own mobility," says Beckett (he went to my fucking school! I'm sitting in the Samuel fucking Beckett computer lab!). The other way to say this is that the only relevant feeling or emotion in a poem is that which the reader brings to it. It's the kisser's job to use technique deftly to the end of guiding that response.

The perfect poem has no poet. The perfect kiss needs no kisser. Which is why we can have neither perfect Poem nor perfect Kiss. But we can have marvelous poems and kisses.

The other way of saying that is that masturbation is the perfect kiss.

And on to Rebecca! Whatta segue! So obviously no poet focuses entirely on their syntax. If they did they wouldn't be poets, they'd be biographers or morticians. Though occasionally a poet must use both arts.

Feeling is essential on both sides. This seems like it contradicts what I just said to Ben, but it doesn't. As I wrote in the other post, feeling is couched in form, and form works in the service of feeling. One cannot have one without the other. But I would like to introduce a new ingredient into our great burgoo here to complement the standards of Feeling and Emotion: IDEA. Form works in the service of idea. Richards calls the poetry of Eliot "a music of ideas." I don't know what fool decided that poetry was suddenly all about feeling, and that ideas were beside the point. The difference between a novel and a poem is a difference of degrees, but for some reason, when we read novels, all we consider are the author's ideas, but when we read poetry, all we consider are his damn feelings. I think that's rather taking a shit on the author's intellect, don't you? Not to say neglecting half the content? Because damn if e.e. himself didn't have a massive degree of formal anxiety going on, too. You can bet he thought long and hard about every single word.

I think that takes care of the point about Data, too. (Sucks about the ankle, though. Sorry to hear that)

Now Sam. "IF the world is puddle-wonderful." Is the world puddle-wonderful? No. The world isn't puddle-wonderful because if Kamala were real, she'd have shingles. And it is not a thing, "wholly to be a fool." Because it is a pleasant fantasy, nothing more, to imagine that anything is ever "whole." Because as said before criticism is as inevitable as breathing. Which means that there is always something to criticize--and because I know that word is so very unpalatable, it is just as clearly said, there is always something else to notice. cummings, it seems to me, was so unutterably beautiful sometimes, so seductively eloquent--a syntactical genius, if you will?--that you can hardly tell that he is the most duplicitous, lying bastard you have ever read. I challenge you to find a single other poet whose work is less connected to the world we live in. I love him, but he's a dirty lying bastard.

Sam, if you want to "put feeling before syntax and just stop being a writer for a moment," do just that. Don't write it. Why expose an isolated pleasant feeling to the scarring whips of contextualization? Why dent and ding something pristine? This isn't sarcasm; there are things that are not meant to be written down. Indeed, these feelings of love and hippidy-bippidy-bippityboppitybou are all things that should never be written down, because to do so would blight them. Because to write a joy is to bind yourself to it, right?

Art doth indeed the winged thing destroy. Thank God. The last thing we miserably earthbound need are winged things flying around screwing up the radar at the airport. I say shoot them down.

It is somewhat old hat by now to say that of course poetry should never under any circumstances be written under the influence of present emotion. Even dusty old Wordsworth's dictum, which we are having a gleeful time dismantling lately, that poetry is "the spontaneous overflow of emotion recollected in tranquility," is well off the mark. Eliot dealt it a death blow in his paper "Tradition and the Individual Talent," which I can't summarize here, but is well worth your while if you wish to know where I'm coming from.

"Lovely in her bones." Yes--that is a very fine definition of a good poem. Lovely in its skeleton.

This is getting dreadfully long and tedious, so I'll cut it off. It's just that I'm not going to get any work done this weekend, so I figured I should get a jump on my essay now.

But finally, I titled this post like I did for a reason. Content (which is to say, feeling, emotion, AND idea) and form are indivisible. Content is form, and form content. No one will ever contend that poetry should ignore feeling, but for some reason just about everyone thinks it should ignore form. But there are THREE elements in poetry: Poet, reader, and POEM. The poem is Eliot's inert catalytic platinum filament. A thing to be molded. You can't just perform the Vulcan mind-meld. Because what you people are talking about isn't art. It's telepathy.

It's almost too good to be true. One of the options for my poetry essay is:

"since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you"
--e.e. cummings

Write an essay on poetry and emotion.

<<>><<>>
YES!

I will go dance the happy dance now. I will trot and romp and gambol. I will swing simian-style from the low-slung boughs of the Tommy Stearns Eliot and Cleanth Brooks trees in the New Criticism orchard. I will climb to the top of the Allen Tate tree and bare and waggle my bright red baboon arse at the wonderstruck Romantics and below and also Terry Eagleton who is a big poop face. And I will try to remember when I am trying to be sarcastic and when I am trying to be cute, and I will not confuse the two, as is my habit.

So this is the essay I've been writing in my head for two years now. Sad thing is I know I'll fuck it up completely. But hey. It'll be a good time.

The basic introduction I came up with as soon as I read that irresistible line from mister cummings: Yes, true. But then again, there's no such thing as being "wholly kissed." At least not in the sense he means it. Because there are just so many darn variables in a kiss, aren't there? How much tongue? Gently? Aggressively? These are the decisions the kisser makes. These convey the kisser's meaning, but it's only through attention to these details--the "syntax of the kiss"--that the kissee can hope to understand that meaning. Agreed, you can stand there and just let yourself be kissed. But so can a corpse.

Because the kiss is just the vehicle, or the How a thing is said. Half the equation. It is intended to convey the tenor, or the What is meant. It's the job of the kissee to read the kiss, not just feel it, and in reading it, to perform conscious and, above all, concentrated acts of, yes, criticism. Not critique, criticism. Analyze the meter and rhyme of the kiss. Because feeling is not first. Feeling is couched in form, and form based on feeling. The two are INDIVISIBLE, Goddammit. e.e. cummings, I can only conclude, must have been a terrible kisser. Because last time I checked, kissing was something of an interactive exercise.

SCHWING!

The counter on the bottom of the page, which probably still says 910 hits, lies. I just checked my page hits and we're up to 995. Just five more, meine lieblings!

You will be very happy to know, Mother, that I have, at your behest, just submitted four pieces to the literary magazine. It's called Icarus. Which is a very stupid name for a literary magazine.

I sent in three posts, slightly edited: Wading into the Whitewater of the Data Stream, one of the first posts; Que Mattina Bellisima, because it's fluffy and fun and because certain people were crawling up me arse about getting it out there; and the relevant part of what is now being called, with dreadful sarcasm referentially opaque to anyone not familiar with Wallace Stevens, "Thursday Morning".

Then I submitted a poem I'd recently written. There is zero chance of that poem being posted here, so don't ask. It's filthy and perverted and sick and I love it.

No, really, I'm not joking (though I don't think any of you thought I was), it's totally sick. It's a proper villanelle in iambic pentameter (though the meter is judiciously skewed at certain moments), slanty rhymes crop up here and there, simple language and punctuation, in short, very normal formally. And the content is appalling. Appalling, at least, to anyone who finds the graphic side of Ginsberg a little too narsty for their own personal tastes. I am, of course, fiercely proud of it. Though I haven't yet decided whether to use my real name on it or not--this is of course assuming that they're willing to put it out at all.

Furthermore I have no doubt that it is the best poem I have ever written.

I wasn't going to advertise this here, but I figured Why not.

The pater familius has come up with a lovely idea to which I hope lots of mein lieblings will subscribe, that of having a big old hairy Nude Year's Eve party chez nous this year. They are ever so anxious to see the whole crew again, and we can promise fine craic, with the only difference being that this year our tolerances should be significantly higher than before. Mine certainly will be. It's gotten simply terrific lately, making getting drunk basically too expensive to afford. Which in the long run probably isn't so bad.

RSVP or whatever you damn well please in the comments section.

I have had it up to here with Feminism. I mean, God damn it. I am sick of it the same way one can get sick of the sun. Because too much of it will fucking kill you.

In nearly every single class, with one exception (Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha'olam, borei pri ha'Poetry), the only goddamn thing we EVER talk about is the plight of Woman. Yes, I can understand how this could be viewed as restitution for all those years when women writers were ignored by educators, but secondly there weren't really all that many of those years, because English (and this is the other thing they've consistently drilled into us) has only existed in its present pedagogical sense for well under a century. But firstly (counting down here), while it is perhaps understandable for a Literature and Sexuality class to devolve into Literature and Feminism, or not even that, just Literature and the Poor Beleaguered Victorian Woman, there is no excuse whatsoever for making it the primary focus of Romanticism and Revolution (read that? Not The Woman, REVOLUTION. Fucking the FRENCH kind), Critical and Cultural Theory, Theatre, and, inexplicably, the Essay, where we have so far been assigned Wollstonecraft (whom we of COURSE also did in Romanticism, so we spent two solid weeks on her, which is to say she has now accounted for more expenditure of wit, or simply time, than anyone else), Maria Edgeworth, George Eliot (against whom I ranted a week ago), and, of course, to cap it all off, Woolf's Womb of One's Own.

Christ. Yesterday, I watched in awe as a merry discussion of Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey disintegrated into a mass moping on the condition of his sister Dorothy, from whom he is suspected of having prigged some to many of his ideas, which makes her of course symbolic of the Victorian goddamn woman, because not a single one of them, with the possible exception of Jane Austen, was at any time anything but abjectly miserable. All well and good, but what the hell does any of this have to do with Tintern fucking Abbey?

And even Literature and Poor Miserable Invariably Pretty And Generally Affluent Women Whose Potential, Though Magnificent To The Point Of Ineffability, Was Squelched By The Mean Old Patriarchy is disappointing. Because frankly--and I think I speak for the majority of my sex here--I seem to recall that sexuality is not the domain of the woman alone, and that once in a very long while, MEN--gasps of shock--get urges too. But of course there has not been a single man, save, of course, Sam, for Darcy (basically I think I exempt Austen from most of this abuse), in any book thus far who has had the slightest hint of a third dimension. Nothing but archetypes and cardboard cutouts. Thank God the next book is Dorian Gray. And maybe one of these days--and I know this is just a private fantasy--we'll get around to a book that's about a heterosexual man.

I don't think that anyone sufficiently educated and, presumably and hoepfully, informed enough to make it into this institution had the slightest illusion that it is not a romp through the poppy field being a woman in any day and age. So please, in the interest of not relieving us of what little sympathy we have left for a woman's plight, let us not BEAT IT TO FUCKING DEATH. I would appreciate the class much more if we were dealing with contemporary women's lit, as that would kinda sorta just a little bit better serve the intention of Feminism, which is presumably to alleviate that plight? Please, correct me if I'm wrong. I think the best possible book for this course is probably the Hours (which I once tried to get on the HM English department to read along with Dalloway in 11th grade). At least we finish up with Oranges are Not the Only Fruit (1997), which is about a girl growing up a lesbian in an evangelical Christian household, which I suppose makes it slightly more apropos for this country than The Hours. But in any case we finish the term, and, mercifully, the class, without the slightest authentic reference to Male heterosexuality, because Dorian Gray doesn't count a bit. Don't talk about Sybil Vane. Sybil Vane doesn't exist.

It shouldn't be the focus of the class, but I'd appreciate it if they at least paid it lip service once or twice, you know? I want to see one realistic (ruling our Darcy) straight man to whom the author actually paid attention. Because this isn't Literature and Present Sexual Politics, it's Literature and Sexuality. Which goes both ways.

I sound so unbearably right-wing it makes me sick. But it's genuinely pissing me off. A good hit of Feminism, okay. Great, glad to do it. But this is not a good hit. This is like when someone holds your mouth to the bong and covers your nose for ten minutes. Furthermore, with the exception of a dash of Postcolonialism, for which we are not reading a shred of actual literature anyway, not even the White Fucking Man's Burden, we are completely ignoring race. That of course might be attributed to the fact that there are NO black people in Ireland. I swear to God. I can count the number of black people I have seen in this country on my fingers. But there are Asians here and there, and the number of Hispanics I think might have risen to 14 yesterday; one, apparently, had a baby. It made national news.

But while we're ignoring race, we are staying the hell away from religion (except for of course medieval dramas, which give you ever so broad a range of exposure). Forget about Shylock; I worry we won't even go near Bloom. For the first time I feel like I actually want a The Jew in Literature course, which I think maybe they offer, I'm not sure.

Eh. I am bored of this ranting. I just want to mention in closing that I am not the only one who feels this way; the vast majority of students (which means the vast majority of ladies, too) is entirely with me. At this rate, we'll all end up misogynists.

Okay. Here we go.

So this has been a rollicking weekend, a great olla podrida kentucky burgoo sort of weekend, bustling with activity, throbbing with everything from miserable movies to brilliant brunches to relentless reading to absurd alliteration to hold on I have to pee.

Right. That was lovely. So where do I begin? A little whining always get my juices flowing on a chilly monday morning, so herewith:

I'm a mess from Ultimate again. Remember the bloody knee from sandy astroturf? Well, that's managed to so restrict the movement of the joint that walking up stairs basically has to be done on one leg. But that boo-boo would have been rather inconsequential had I not added on another injury yesterday when, on the last play of the game, I was laying out for a huck in the end zone when I got absolutely steamrolled by this Canadian guy named Malcolm (another one of the national team players), who apparently thought this was rugby. I landed on my left shoulder and something moved that shouldn't have. It didn't dislocate, but it came pretty close. I can't really use that left arm now, which makes putting a shirt on a real bitch. Hopefully it'll have healed up by wednesday, when we have our next practice. And yes, I dropped the fucking disc. But it was ruled a score anyway.

This coming weekend we head out to Cork for Intervarsities. Many stories are sure to come out of this.

In other news, I have finally put that crepe pan Marie brought me to its intended use. On Friday night, Sadie and Caitriona and I started making next morning's brunch: the girls made the banana bread and I made the crepe batter, though I did so with what proved to be the wrong flour, though it was all I had in the flat. The crepes, consequentially, turned out yellow the next morning, though perfectly edible. Then the next morning we got up as the cock crew, something like 10am, and made scones and hollandaise sauce for the poached eggs, which had been the grand oeuf-vre (irresistible pun...) of the previous night. See, the Joy of Cooking says that to poach eggs, you must create in a pot a "mad vortex" of boiling water, into the center of which you are to gently, and with extreme precision, drop the egg (remember the words "egg" and "drop"), which is then supposed to be shaped by the maelstrom into a cohesive mass. This we finally realized was a joke. Because it's totally fucking impossible. We mutilated about three eggs--looked like egg drop soup, really--then I phoned home. Jacob was depressingly helpful. It was resolved that we should abjure the mad vortex method and instead go with the 'rolling boil in the skillet into which you slide the egg from the edge." This worked considerably better, though in the end it was resolved that all of this, down to the hollandaise sauce (which was nearly reussite, but ultimately marred by excess of lemon), was a great experiment, which we were going to have to repeat a number of times. It was all nonetheless very delicious. We (about eight of us) began eating at about 12:30, and by 2 were sitting, contented, in a post-prandial daze, sprawled about the living room, lounging in the fuzzy sun of an early Saturday afternoon. Lovely day. Then we decided--for this is the bent of the self-destructive man, to harrow his joy and martyr his pleasure--that the best thing to do would be to go see a movie. And what fucking movie do you think we chose?

Good lord. I mean, it was just embarassing. That a film could be so staggeringly bad, you lose your faith in humanity, yes? It makes it all break down, sense, logic, process, grammar, this is all gone because the Matrix is this: the end of the world. No really it is. That the most profound of concepts floats facedown in the kiddie pool. And the polymorphic odyssey of the new millenium could be stripped naked of its simple gritty purity and overwhelmed by Moloch and selfindulgence and oh my GOD did it SUCK for Chrissakes it ended with a fucking SUNRISE I mean JESUS FUCKING

I had considered doing so, but it seems to me there is no longer any point in dignifying this fallen franchise with odes comparing it to Ozymandias. Perhaps if some artistry remained in it, perhaps if some of that unornamented logic and grit lingered in its heart, maybe then might we call it Ozymandias. But no. Yes, it does have two vast and trunkless legs of stone: Neo and Trinity. Emphasis on the stone. And trunkless. And BAD. But we cannot now "those passions read," because those once brilliant and new passions have been supplanted with ones as artificial as (and I know it's trite, but so is the fucking movie) the Matrix itself.

It was a disaster. The dialogue was unspeakably shit. Remember that line in the first one, the line where she says "God damn you Cypher" and forgets to put the comma in between the You and the Cypher, and everyone watching cringes? Well, every line in this movie is like that. Even the fight scenes were laughable; at the end, the climactic battle has the two fighters (I am trying not to spoil the movie) fighting in the storm-drenched sky, but for Christ's sake they look like flopping trout humping, not God and Lucifer fighting the battle of Armaggedon.

I'm still in recovery, I think. We went out to this pub afterward, the first place I've seen so far that had an fantastic selection of beer, literally the first place that didn't have the same old Guinness-Bud-Miller-Coors-Smithwick's-Kilkenny draught array that every single goddamn pub here has. And even this wasn't enough to keep me in a sweltering hot four-story pub with thumping music. So Sadie and I cut out. We stopped in briefly at another pub on the way home, one which was less packed but soon proved to be much, much worse in the music department, but we had a quick drink and wondered whether that girl at the other table was actually naked, because bedamned if she didn't look it from behind, I mean, you wouldn't believe, we were convinced she wasn't wearing anything, and then finally she got up and turned around and well, we were half right, because it looked like maybe she was having laundry issues too, seeing as how she was wearing basically a black glorified bra and a handtowel and nothing else, and then she put on a coat that was of the purest chastest virginalest white and Sadie and I just laughed our asses off. Then we walked home and watched an hour and a half of the Family Guy, of which she has a few seasons on DVD, in her room. Then I went to bed and woke up at 1:30pm.

Ultimate starts at 2; I didn't make it till 2:30, but it's not an issue; this is frisbee, not the army. It rained like hell, despite the fact that it was wonderfully sunny. This is the weather in Ireland: a downpour, soft warm sun, and a massive rainbow, ALL AT THE SAME TIME. Very glad I have cleats.

Anyway, to wrap up the weekend, I came home and worked my ass off until 2am, when I crashed while reading Orientalism, which I just finished a half hour ago. And now I have to go to class. Been nice speaking with you. Thank you come again.

I apologize for the not-blogging which has taken place this weekend. I have not forgotten my private public pleasure; I have merely had neither the time or patience to trot down to the bloody computer room here (which you may remember has only six functioning machines for 750 students) and wait thirty minutes and then battle with Linux, which is inexplicably the only operating system on the machine I'm working on, as well as the one next to me. Unfortunately, I haven't got time tonight either, as it is 11:45 and I have only just now finished Kyd's Spanish Tragedy (which is best described as a merry romp through the abattoir) and wrote an admittedly bewildered presentation on it (the thesis statement is, "I'm confused. Help me.") to be delivered tomorrow, and now I have to go tackle Said's Orientalism, which I sincerely hope will be interesting enough to keep me going through Wordworth's Tintern Abbey and something of Coleridge's, which are not likely to give me the steam I need to barrel through a good third of Chopin's The Awakening. That last, at least, is not for tomorrow; it's for tuesday. The rest are all for tomorrow. Though the lecture on the Awakening is at 2pm. OY.

Enough bitched. Tomorrow, I will hopefully have the time and energy (read, Wakefulness) to dump huge steaming loads of bloggity goodness on you all, as ever so much has happened since me last post.

Oh yes, one more thing. I'll be back in the city on 8 December, and flying out again on the 4th or so. And I'll be in kansas city from around the 23rd to the 28th, but I don't know if these dates be conclusive, yarr. Everyone should post in the comments section their vacation dates so we can all hook up and party like at an Irish wake...

Oh and one more one more thing, very quickly: I saw the Matrix Revolutions last night. And it SUCKED. IT SUCKED LIKE NOTHING HAS EVER SUCKED BEFORE. Reloaded looked like Lawrence of fucking Arabia by comparison. Much, much more on this tomorrow; anyone who is worried about plot-spoiling, tell me now so I don't ruin the SHITTIEST MOVIE EVER for you.