I continued by japanese film festival this weekend, and rented Throne of Blood by Akira Kurosawa and Zatoichi 2: The Tale of Zatoichi Continues by Kazuo Mori.

These were two great samurai movies, fully of bloody fight scenes, great samurai costumes, and lots and lots of great swordplay.

Throne of Blood is Kurosawa's adapation of Macbeth done in feudal warlord japanese history. The ending is great and very, very horrific. Kurosawa's ending scene makes Tarantino's violence in Kill Bill look very tame.

Zatoichi is just fun to watch because he's blind and still a yakuza and a great warrior, and women are always falling in love with him and telling how great he is in bed. That's so funny to me.

It's take me forever to read "A Thousand of Acres". It's hard to read a book where the characters are doing stupid things just because they can't help themselves. I have that running conversation about my own life, so why do I have to read out people doing it in their lives?

I'm reading all of Octavia Butler's books. I just finished reading Clay's Ark by Octavia Butler. Her books are much more interesting to read and much more thought provoking for me. But it's science fiction and I'm finding it's just more fun to read than regular old human drama, the kind of stuff you see as a movie on Lifetime TV.

I had such a lazy, lazy weekend. I didn't leave the house at all on Saturday. I stayed in and cleaned and puttered around the house. I was planning to go out, but then it felt so go to be leisurely and be a bum. I did clean up and get things picked up, so at least my day wasn't completely wasted.

This morning I meant to get up to go to church, but the temptation to sleep in was just too much. I finally roused myself in the afternoon, returned my videos, went to the library to return the books I read and pick up more books that I had requested and had come in, and then did some grocery shopping.

I cooked all the food that was in the fridge, and I now have lunches prepared for four days this week. I like not having to think about what I'm going to bring or buy for lunch every day.

I finally got around to making croutons out of the loaf of country sourdough bread I bought last week. It got really hard, so I popped into the microwave to soften it up and then cut it for homemade croutons. Making homemade crouton is so time consuming, but they taste better than store bought ones.

There's an animated version of The Lord of Rings on TV that I have on in the background. I thought it might fun to watch and compare it to Peter Jackson's movie version. But now I just want to lie in bed, listen to opera arias and read.

For some fun reading ... Top 10 Conspiracy Theories of 2003-2004.

So to make my already shitty week worse, I decided last night I would dress provocatively for my last night of film history class to please the left wing Hollywood movie professor. God only knows why because his politics exclude him from ever having a permanent role in my life, but the nasty part of me that his politics don't preclude him from summer flingie status.

Yes, thoughts about having a wild sexual flingie with my rotund extremely left wing film history professor have been popping into my head again like some kind of dangerous contagion. Like I have no idea if Mr. Hollywood Left Winger even finds me attractive, but that doesn't seem to matter to my diseased love starved brain. Okay, so the guy did come up me to last week and thank me for not being afraid to vomit my ultra conservative right wing thoughts in class, but does that mean the man is desperate to jump my creaky bones?

But back to this morning. So I put on this black knit skirt that a friend said was totally too thigh high and wore my black mary janes shoes with the two inch heels, which I decided in the middle of day are really hooker shoes in disguise. I'm not a shoe person, but I think I have a thing for liking two dollar hooker shoes.

I used to own a pair of ankle high black suede boots with a fake fur top and three inch spikey heels that I saw at a shop on Portobello Road in London. They were dirt cheap and on sale, so of course I had to buy them. I didn't seem them in the states for at least four years, and by the time they were the rage in all the stores here in San Francisco I was already bored with them.

I used to call them my hooker poodle boots or my hooker poodley boots, because the fake fur top made them look shaved poodle legs. They were scary as hell to walk in especially when going down hill, but they were so fun to wear. I even wore them to work once and got quite a few stares at work and walking through downtown San Francisco. One guy I used to date loved my shoes and concurred with my idea that they were shoes only a hooker would wear, or someone who likes to look they wear hooker shoes.

Those shoes reminded me that I used to own another pair of shoes with a strap across the ankle, which is like so hooker looking. Only these shoes didn't have heels and had thick rubber bottoms like platform shoes, so I called them my hook clodhopper shoes. They were black suede and I found them in a closeout bin at the Esprit outlet.

So I'm wearing the way too short at my age and my weight black knit skirt, black tights, my black hooker mary janes shoes with the two inch heels, a white scoop necked tshirt, and of course because I was going to work and I couldn't be too tasteless for TV, a pink cashmere cable sweater. I also had a necklace one and some earrings. But it's the two inch heels hooker mary jane shoes and the totally too short black knit skirt that gets the most attention.

And I was so uncomfortable at work with those shoes. My stride is long and when I'm wearing two inch heels I'm always on a slant and I have to take smaller steps which just freaks me out. Then I kept thinking I got weird looks from people at the office, like they were whispering that I was way too fat and my bum looked so enormous in my too tight short knit black skirt. And those hooker shoes? What's up with that?

I was so cursing myself for dressing to please a guy, something I almost never do normally, except for when I really like a guy and that's only been three times that I can remember: 1) always for Steve, the one who got away, 2) for the soccer player guy from England because he demanded I dress to please him, and 3) for my acting teacher who kept casually stating that he wished women would wear more skirts. And now I can add a fourth time for my portly Ira.

But of course since my week was stressful, today was just as stressful so that by the time I got to film history class I was in very foul mood and in no mood to talk to anyone. I kept thinking I should put a note to him in the envelope we had to give to him to mail our tests back in, which gave him my name and phone number and telling him I'd like to get together.

I mean, I could have done that couldn't I? But of course I chickened out, and rationalized to myself that I wanted to take at least two more classes from him and how would that work if I had a summer flingie with him. So no note, no conversation, and I don't think I even smiled at him because I was stressed. And then me being mad at myself the whole bus ride home because I had worn my stupid provocative outfit for nothing, and now my feet were seriously killing me.

Dressing to please a guy, what a bother! It never works out anyway. Steve, the one that got away, never appreciated it. He never know how I agonized over what I wore when we went out on dates, and how I seriously deliberated whether he would find my outfit attractive. Stupid english soccer guy never thought I dressed sexy enough for him, and stupid acting teacher guy ended up being such a new york city whiner.

And if I don't please to dress a guy, then I get comments like the ones I got from Chris, the hot as hell pretty marina jock guy, who used to obliquely chastise me for not wearing outfits that showed my rack more. And he only said that because as it turned out, the guy liked dating women with fake giant cow udder breasts. At least my rack was real.

So no fat Mr. Hollywood left winger in my bed this summer, and maybe that's a good thing I guess.

I don't know what's wrong wtih me these days. I feel so stressed out at work. I don't know if I'm just paranoid, but maybe the honeymoon with my employer is over. I don't know. I just feel so stresed out, but I know it's not just me. Everyone around me is stressed out as well. One of my bosses had a huge red rash on his face, and when I asked him about it he said it was stress related.

I know I should feel grateful for my job, but I'm not. And that's definitely not a good thing. There's this new guy in my group, who used to be ad account manager, who is now an admin assistant. Now that's tough. I've never had it that tough. I don't envy him, and I kind of feel bad for him too. But he's a nice guy, and he's trying desperately hard to move up so he's all happy and cheery. And I envy him, and sometimes get mad at him for being so happy.

It makes me feel like I should be that way. I should be walking around all happy and grateful just to have a job, but I don't feel that way and it kind of freaks me out. Instead two months in, I feel fat, overworked, stressed and tired. One of the guys in the department said everybody new in the company looks shell shocked for the first few months, so he told me it was normal.

The ad guy who's now an admin assistant transferred from another group, and there's another new guy who was contractor for two years before they hired him in my department. The guy has a PhD from John Hopkins and he had two consult for two years before the company would hire him.

So you see, I'm not that bad off. So why do I just feel that way. I've got to fix my attitude though. I don't want it to look like I'm walking around all angry all the itme, even though that's what I feel like.

Sometimes I think I just don't work smart enough and it takes me forever to do anything, and my bosses are mentally making notes what a bad and slow worker I am. Or it takes me three times before I get something right.

I had to write an executive summary, and my boss kept sending it back saying it was too long and it needed a 30,000 foot view. I had no idea how to write the darn thing, and it was so frustrating. Finally when I saw the final copy it was just bullet points and four sentences.

My boss kept sending me emails begging me to write the cliff notes version of a 20 page presentation. She said senior execs just want to take a guick glance at was presented, and then if they wanted more info they could read the attached presentation.

I don't think I'll ever get used to writing the "30,000 foot" view. And I feel bad that I think that, and stupid and dumb as hell that it took me three hours to figure out how to write four sentences and with about four bullet points each.

I can't wait for my work week to be over. I'm starting to think I hate my job, but I haven't been in it long enough to hate it. Maybe it's just not a good fit, and I'm only now starting to realize it. Even if it wasn't a good fit, it's not like there's any place for me to go.

If there is one good thing about being back in a busy corporate office, it's how much I appreciate coming home at the end of the day and having my weekends off.

I wish I could just detach myself from my job, and just leave at 5 pm. I have to start doing that. I am definitely taking my job way too seriously, and getting all stressed out for nothing.

I've stopped writing because I'm so stressed. Thank god, I haven't stop reading. Reading is very relaxing for me. Reading feels like an escape from my dreary world. Writing used to feel that way, but now it just feels like something else I have to do, something else I have to excel in, something else I have to stress about.

I'm staring to realize that writing is really like a job. I've got keep doing it regularly to get good, and keep doing it even when I feel like total shit. This attitude feels so wrong somehow. Writing used to be so fun, so escapist for me. I used to be able to escape in my writing, and start living in the world I was writing about. I used to find it relaxing to pretend to be someone else in my writing. I've got to figure out how to bring the fun back into my writing.

I think I just figured out why my new job is less than enjoyable right now. I'm so busy that I can't enjoy the feeling of accomplishment of doing things. As soon as I finish one project, I'm on to the next project.

My old boss told me that my new company was in really bad financial times a few years ago. They were losing money and not doing well. Then they got this huge, huge contract and that really pulled them out of the red ink.

I think because the new company has gone through some hard times, it feels like they're always playing catch-up. They're always running to keep up with the competition. The new company instituted a new policy of "expecting the unreasonable". I think one of my bosses takes it too far, but it's not just her. All the managers are trying to do that. The thing is, you can only do that if you know your people really well and you're not already understaffed.

Whatever. I know my attitude about my job has to change, or I'll just be very unhappy at work. And I can't spend 8-10 hours a day feeling unhappy. I just have to figure out a way to adapt my working style to the company's without stressing myself out. Maybe that means not leaving right at 5 pm, but leaving at 5:30 pm and then not worrying about my job. It all works out anyway, and I think I've forgotten this dictum these last few days.

I have major workaholic tendencies myself, so I know I can't blame my unhappiness soley on my job. I just have to transfer my workaholicness to my writing and away from my job. I know part of my unhappiness these last few days has been because I haven't been writing. Whatever I get out of writing, it must be enough to make me go through some serious withdrawal like symptoms when I stop doing it.

This week was especially hard though because I had my film history final tonight, and I spent every night since last Friday trying to study. I worked out on Saturday and Sunday, but didnt' write. Then I spent the rest of the week studying and didn't write or work out.

That's weird isn't it? For me to think that I'm going withdrawal because I'm not writing, like writng is a drug to me. If writing is a drug, I have no idea what I'm getting out of it. What's up with that? I'm not getting any tangible benefits, but I'm going through withdrawal when I don't write. But the whole whidrawal theory so makes sense, and as soon as I came up with the thought it was as if a huge weight was lifted from my shoulders because it feels so good when I figure things out and it makes sense inwardly.