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Death of a Metaphor

The only thing I really knew about lemmings is that whole "suicide as population control" thing: it's framed a lot of people's perceptions of the little beasties, and mine is no exception. I was quite amazed, then, to hear that it was untrue, let alone the sordid tale of the myth's original birth.

It's remarkable how much better I've felt since I stopped beating myself up for not being able to focus, and instead accepted the fact that it's a temporary situation that can be worked through. I've been trying to tidy up around the apartment, paid my hydro bill, did a bit of online book shopping (partially guided by a helpful and well-done OkCupid quiz) that might result in a new purchase, played some Vampire: Bloodlines (it's amazing how much the fan patches have improved the game since I last played, and of course popping high-level Celerity going on a killing spree in a roomful of hapless mortals never gets old) and am now going to see about dinner and prepping for class tomorrow.

Saw Spamalot yesterday: Natasha took the extra ticket I ended up with when Sam left. It was a absurd and hilarious show, somehow managing to both be and not be what I expected from it. The reused songs (Always Look On The Bright Side, Brave Sir Robin) and the iconic scenes like the French Castle and the Killer Rabbit were well-translated, and even the innovations (like the Lady of the Lake's expanded role, or "You Won't Succeed On Broadway") weren't entirely out of place. In the end, the measure of a comedy is how long you spend laughing, and by that measure it passes with flying colours.