In my dissolute days, I dated an English teacher for awhile who did it for me except in that he looked like what I thought Daniel Radcliffe's Harry Potter would look like grown up. At the time that disturbed me, as Harry Potter is a child and I didn't want to be thinking about children while 'dating' this man (definitely the bowdlerism of all time here, or at least since Dr. Thomas claimed Caligula enjoyed heated games of cribbage with his sister).
According to the ubiquitous posters for Equus, Daniel Radcliffe is now all grown up and it turns out I needn't have worried; they don't look anything at all like each other. Or at least I think they don't, as I haven't seen Daniel Radcliffe's knob - the only thing yesterday's National Post left to the imagination. And I amn't likely to, considering I want to make that comparison rather less than I want to avoid seeing a play about a psychiatrist 'finding himself' through the passionate bestiality of a patient. Jeebus. I know the kid wants to avoid typecasting but honestly, a fucking play about a psychiatrist finding himself? You know what, I can find the psychiatrist for you without you having to pay for a ticket. He's sitting in a comfy chair like a twat, making $90 an hour at the bottom end of his sliding scale and refusing to let that perverted old dinosaur Freud go. There. Found.
My long-short haircut looks good but is unexciting. Which is fine, I guess; I wanted something fairly unexciting for the interview so I can put up a convincing appearance of strait-lacedness. And that is all the news that is fit to procrastinate with before I go to the gym this morning.