When good things happen to me, it is hard to enjoy them because I am sure I must suffer an equal amount at some future time. I don’t know where this idea came from. I don’t actually believe that there exists a comprehensive spiritual physics. All the same, this imagery is so vivid that it must have some origin beyond my transient mortal equipment: a blinding God of polished brass, one hand heavy with my blessings, the other exquisite palm raised in imminent violence.
The guy from the comic shop I go to gave me a call a few days ago, which was weird, because I didn’t think our relationship had really gotten to that level. It was good news, though - the kind of news which plucks those resonant fears I have recently described. My name and others had been entered into a hat, and it was the task of this common hat to determine who was seeing Silent Hill early. In a feat of ballcap wisdom, I came away with a two-person pass. Also, if I am not mistaken, I’m now in Ravenclaw.
We had been making plans to see Silent Hill today, when it arrives in your Earth theatres, and a considerable amount of anticipation had built up before I received my "golden ticket." Today was to be Movie Day, a holy ritual, and by accepting the pass that I had won - the pass the hat had decreed! - I created a significant amount of tension between myself and my cohort. So much tension that it derailed all attempts to create .jpegs until we were able to make comics which specifically concerned my double-dealin’s. We have done so. Indeed, so raw was my treatment, so cold the shoulder presented, that fully two strips were required to calculate my transgressions in full.
Independent of concerns about movie quality, if that man calls me and tells me something else his hat has done, I may hang up. I have detailed in the past how I enjoy the preview showing "culture," and see them whenever I can - certainly, being in a house full of browncoats for the Serenity preview provided satisfaction at near optimal levels. But this wasn’t that. No-one bought these tickets, and I presume the bulk of them came from comic shops as I did, producing a crowd that I found utterly incompatible with the viewing of film.
Ironic Movie Laugh Comic Store Owner and his choir of sycophants felt it absolutely necessary to detail their ignorance on every human topic and make observations that were no doubt "hilarious" to the throng. You motherfuckers aren’t Joel, or Crow, or Tom Servo, you’re not even Mike. You’re not even Gypsy! All you are - breath heavy with synthetic butter, slick fingers slipping on the waxed cup - is the burning ruin of first-run cinema.