Phew. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten around to these recaps and I’m going to spare you the excuses, because it’s Pride month and there has been a dissapointing lack of gay-ass content on this blog. Let’s remedy that in an eventful Sugar Rush double-header, shall we? Catch up on the last recap right here, and let’s get to it!
Ah, you know what I haven’t done in ages on this blog? A bloody full-show television review. And now seems as good a time as any to pick up where I left off and yell at you about how much I fuckin’ love Gay Good Omens.
I’m never going to stop writing about Stephen King, am I?
I wrote this post on a day when I was really, really struggling with anxiety after a stupid trigger set me off. I thought it might be helpful to cast some light on how exactly bad anxiety attacks can make life pretty hard when they’re in full force, so I’ve detailed my train of thought and my state of mind below. This isn’t a post trying to say that all people with OCD deal with this, or that anyone who has dealt with something similar has OCD: just a look at my own experiences with the illness, and how it impacts my functioning day-to-day.
So, we love a little blog synergy around here, right? Well, this week over at our film blog No But Listen, we’ve been looking at the best performances in bad movies, and that got me to thinking – who fills that gap on the small screen? So many bad shows to choose from, so little time, but I’ve narrowed it down to my three favourites. To the list!
Fucked-up horror with a point to prove is the only thing I’m watching right now
Forever roasting the prequel trilogy
To round up this week of positivity (and thanks to all for your support over the past few days!), and to precede getting back to our regularly scheduled snarkgramming, I wanted to talk a little about success.
I sat down to write my very first book when I was seven years old.
When I was a kid, my mum (hi Mum! Pet the dog for me) helped me pull a sickie to get off school to I could go see Eoin Colfer talk at a local theatre. I still remember sitting there, hiding out deep in the stands, listening to him spin these long, involved yarns – scary, funny, utterly unique, delivered in a soft Irish brogue that could snap into various characters at will – about growing up in Ireland, about his stories, about what drove him to write. He was meant to be signing books afterwards – once the queue of people who actually had copies of his latest release had dissipated, my mum approached with a page torn out of the back of her crossword puzzle book. Even though he was only meant to be signing his books, he happily scrawled down a signature on the paper, chatting with my mother about something that I was too awestruck to take in. Because this was the man who’d written the coolest books I’d ever read in my life.
