It was good. Reasonably accurate, with some glaring differences that...probably were for the best. Because the original ending was a teensy bit convoluted, and probably a little difficult to get across in only three hours.

Looking back, I probably should've tried to insist on not seeing it until I had painkillers, because I knew I was going to end up with a headache.

See, I've got this problem with movies. They flicker. Apparently, they're even adding flicker to digital movies now, to make them feel more...authentic to everyone else. Which completely defeats the purpose of digital, as far as I'm concerned. Because that flicker? I can see it. And it hurts me.

A lot.

I probably would've been fine, though, if it weren't for the popcorn. See, I'm kinda beginning to suspect something was wrong with the popcorn -- or, at least, the tiniest bit of the first batch of popcorn I ate.

Why do I think that? Well, I kinda bit into something that tasted like...it's hard to explain, except by smell. You know that smell that lets you know that there's a potato somewhere in the house that's been in the house far too long? Like, months, or years? And it's gone all soft and nasty, and the smell gets everywhere, so it's almost impossible to locate? It tasted like something that smells like that must taste. With a nice topping of rancid salsa.

It was...what you might call 'ungood'. A fairly nasty taste. But I wasn't exactly sure if I was tasting it, or just smelling something really wrong -- like, maybe the guy three seats down from us got some nasty, nasty nacho platter, and it was fucking with me, y'know? It was that kind of taste -- the taste that's more smell than taste, and you're not sure if you're really tasting it, or just...smelling it. Because some smells taste more than they smell.

And the refill on the popcorn was fine. So I kept eating. And I kept drinking my coke. Got through two of those -- and, hey, prompt refills, too. That was nice.

Right toward the end of the movie -- right around...the Mars talk, and Antarctica, I started feeling kinda...bad. In the 'intense pain' sort of way. But it wasn't my head; it was my stomach. Like my steadily-worsening migraine decided that my head just wasn't a good enough neighbourhood anymore, and it had to move somewhere where there were more nerve endings. Not the most pleasant feeling.

Right around the "I'm smarter than your average Bond villain, so I'm going to explain my cunning plan to you, and then let you know that I set my plan in motion thirty minutes ago, ha ha!" speech, I noticed that the normal 'I can feel my heart beating, and my blood flowing through every fucking capillary' effect of a moderate to severe headache had taken on an interesting new...texture. I figured it'd be fine, though, because, hey, there's still movie left. I'll just focus on that, and everything will be fine. I'll just relax enough to lower my blood pressure, and, by the time the movie ends, I'll be able to move again.

...except, that didn't quite work out. Because it didn't stop. And the movie ended. And I stood up. Because I'm an idiot, and I couldn't actually find the words to explain why I shouldn't get up.

Now, most of you have probably never been inside a Movie Tavern, so it's probably kinda hard to imagine a place that shows movies and has food and really, really comfy executive-style office chairs. But they've got...really comfy chairs, and tables for the food, and really wide aisles. And a fair approximation of the stadium-style seating that most cinemas now have. I made it to the big aisle between the rear set of seats, where you go to exit the...whatever the individual rooms are called. And then I just...sat down. Because standing was no longer an option, and sitting in a somewhat controlled manner was better than any other option. Because standing up was some sort of magical signal to instantly lower my blood pressure from...wherever it was to 'oh shit, there's very little blood in my head'.

...then Gremlin reminded me that acting the way I was would likely get EMS called, and I stood up again.

I almost made it to the little exit door from the special room with the screen. Then, everything stopped working, and I got up-close and personal with the floor. It was much nicer than the last time I passed out -- in my own bathroom. That time, I hit a door, gave myself a black eye, scratched up my face, and ended up with a really nasty cut just below my navel. That one left a scar.

Here's where things get fuzzy. I remember saying that I was fine, I just needed a minute, but I don't quite remember getting up. I remember someone offering to get me something -- a chair, or some water. I remember saying, "water would be good," and that one of the employees said he was something that qualified him to administer first aid of some sort. I vaguely remember that this employee looked kinda emo...just, y'know, the hair.

...then the fire truck showed up. And I couldn't figure out why there was a fire truck, except that they'd called 911, and assured me that it was policy.

I remember they sent the ambulance people [who also showed up] off to deal with someone who had an asthma attack, leaving the firemen with me. And then, there was all sorts of new pain. In my finger.

Finger sticks hurt. What the fuck is that about? It always feels like they jam that little automatic needle thing straight into my finger bone, as if there's some sort of magical test which requires bone marrow from my finger. But my blood sugar was okay. So that's good.

I also remember them taking my blood pressure. I was fairly convinced it was going to be high -- mostly because I was confused. It makes a hell of a lot of sense to me now that it'd be lower. But...confused.

Things didn't start making sense until much later, mostly because things got really confusing after that point. Because the fireman offered to give us a ride home. I didn't know they could do that. I didn't know they would do that. I mean, it's a fire truck. It's a big, expensive, special emergency vehicle that goes to save people from fire. It doesn't have seats -- not really. It doesn't have room for passengers [or so I thought]. It doesn't...take people home.

Firemen don't do that, right? They aren't there to give you rides home when you pass out after seeing a movie. They're there to remove you from your home after you set it on fire trying to deep fry a frozen turkey inside.

Except, apparently, they do. Because they gave me a ride home.

The novelty of the situation got me just aware enough to take pictures, because I figured nobody'd believe me. Because it's a fire truck.

They're a little blurry, because I wasn't really steady enough to hold the camera properly. But...pictures -- because it did happen.

Fire trucks, by the way, are not the comfiest ride in the world. The seat was nice enough, but you could feel every imperfection the road has ever had -- and possibly every imperfection the ground underneath it has had since the planet cooled. Seriously bumpy ride.

Also, fire trucks? Are big. Really, really big. And our street is one of those little streets where two cars can't pass eachother on a good day -- where a good day is when there aren't cars parked on both sides of the street. So, that was probably annoying for them.

I spent the rest of that evening in bed, drinking my water -- and then 7up, just to be safe.

I'm fine now. And I've got more stuff to post about, but I'll leave it for later. I've just been a little lazy recently....

One minute, I was right where I belonged -- on the toilet, wondering exactly how bad this was going to get. The next...I don't know, because there's this missing instant between that and my face hitting the door in front of me.

And now my nice new shirt has a hole in it, where whatever it is that I cut myself on poked through to leave two ragged tears over my bellybutton. And I've hit the 'domestic-abuse-excuse' jackpot, since my face really did hit the door. And it hurts a lot....

I hope I can do something about the shirt. It was only $8, but I like it, and don't want to have to toss it so soon.

...maybe Kohl's will have more when I'm ready to go back out where people can see me again.

...I hurt now. I am filled with regret. And warm, bleeding beef, because I got this awful craving for it a little bit ago, and just had to eat. Pain, regret and meat.

I think the waterbed wants to hold me and ease my suffering.

I suppose I could blame my ankle, because of how it often dislikes being an ankle. I think it wants to be a really loose door hinge, instead, with the way it likes turning inward toward the rest of my leg.

I kinda wish it'd stop doing that. Not that I want to stand in the way of anyone's aspirations -- it's not my place to prevent things from being what they want. But it's my ankle doing this. It's attached to me, so it kinda gets in my way, and causes me to abruptly introduce myself to whatever serves as the ground. In public.

This morning, I became intimately familiar with a section of road in front of someone's driveway. I say 'intimately familiar' because that's about the only way I can justify it getting all my chai latte. I don't share my drinks with just anybody....

My coat survived, which is good. So did the three cases of soda in my backpack. My sunglasses got scratched, but not too badly. I added a layer of skin to my lovely-comfy yoga pants, and I'm guessing there's a bit of elbow on the inside of my coat somewhere.

So, I got to spend a few minutes around dawn this morning practically in the middle of a road, crying over stupid things [lost tea, my coat, my sunglasses, the soda, my nonexistant pride] because I was seriously pissed at myself for letting myself fall. I also got to spend those few minutes learning that Gremlin was willing to sit there in the middle of that street with me, and be more concerned about me while I was busy fretting over my various possessions.

I guess the day wasn't all bad.

I have to do this because that finger is currently a little useless for typing, being inside one of those puffy blue-stuff and metal finger splints. It's not broken; I probably wouldn't have been given one of these if I'd gone to a doctor over it right away [which would be stupid], but, honestly, what do they know about making things so they heal a little more quickly, anyway?

My big round adjustable-height pedestal fan decided to give in to gravity last night, and I just happened to have my hand on the part of the stand that adjusts. It got a rather nice chunk of the lower, fleshy part of my right index finger. That particular chunk is still there, but I suspect it won't be for long. Maybe we got it taken care of in time, though.

I have to consider myself lucky that I live with someone who can stand the sight of blood and will react appropriately when something stupid happens that results in pain and bleeding the urge to just sit there and bang your head into the wall because it's so stupid that this happened. Also, it's hurting the way newly-created blood blisters do, but in an appropriately large way.

Gremlin got some ice and the first aid kit, and got everything I needed open so I could clean the area and wrap it in something that wouldn't stick. Then he helped me with the finger splint, so I wouldn't bend it and start bleeding all over again. Also, it's kinda nice to have all the padding, so I don't find out about the pain every time I forget and do something.