I am almost positive that I’ve written about this in the past, probably back in April about Camp NaNoWriMo. It’s alright. I need to give myself a pep talk (though we get enough of those sent to our NaNo accounts as it is).
Alright, so first thing’s first: when I first saw the trailer for “Ouija: Origin of Evil,” I didn’t actually realize it was a prequel to “Ouija” (2014), which is a movie I neglected to see because, honestly, the premise sounded stupid. It was stupid then, it’s stupid now, and I feel like I should have made a better choice. I didn’t, though, so here’s a review of “Ouija: Origin of Evil.”
There are spoilers ahead, so be warned.
The GPS, in its mechanical voice (void of the warmth Google provides its androids, since I’ve had to resort back to Garmin), tells me repeatedly to get on 95 and its variations. I don’t; I hate driving on highways in general, and especially at night.
Last night, I went to Bridgewater State’s Visiting Author Series event, since I enjoy going and will go whenever I can.
Maybe a better title for this post might be, “How Have I Found Myself Consistently Substitute Teaching at an Elementary School?” but I technically wrote this on Friday while on a lunch break, so I’ll leave it mostly as-is.
For a while now, I’ve been going to the laundromat whenever I need to wash my clothes. This isn’t a strange phenomenon, given that people who live in apartments without a laundry room in the basement have to use laundromats, and students at colleges (or at least, the school I went to) who live in the dorms have to pay to use the laundry machines. That said–and no offense meant to people who own or work at laundromats–I really, really hate having to go.
“But I don’t like Westerns.”
I don’t care. “The Nice Guys” was my favorite movie of the summer, and I’m pretty sure “The Magnificent Seven” is going to wind up being my favorite movie of the fall.
I’ve been sitting on this review for a while since I’ve been sitting on this book for a while. It’s the last book I don’t have packed up and ready to move, and I’m sorry to say that it won’t be joining me at my next place.