islanded in a stream of stars

I am going to the movie theater tomorrow armed with my totally battered Mickey Mouse bath towel which I've had ever since I can remember in honor of horosha since he's been kind enough not to spoil the movie for me. At first, my friends didn't seem too keen on bringing their own bath towels, but I assured them that they would be terribly hoopy froods if they did. I am bringing the same towel that I used as my Arthur Dent costume two years ago, the one for which the unenlightened populace assumed that I was some random guy who had trouble waking up in the morning. Hmph. I am really tempted to sport my dad's bathrobe that was also part of my costume to the theater, but unfortunately it's still too big on me and would drag on the ground and get dirty.

I take full pride in my geekdom.

I also must confess that the prospect of sort of living on my own for eight weeks in Boston/Cambridge with guys who are actually my age totally boggles me. I simply can't fathom the prospect after having attended the Nunnery for six years now. I have calculated that I talk to a guy roughly within my age range who isn't related to me (i.e. my numerous cousins don't count) approximately once every two and a half months, and so far my conversations have almost all related to technical film score stuff involving missing cues, incomplete soundtrack listings, and audio editing software. That's the highest rate yet ever since elementary school, which is scary and pathetic and terribly amusing at the same time.