Not quite the devil

I have been incredibly stressed lately and it hasn't gotten any better, not even after hell week ended last Friday evening. After dealing with academic craziness, I had to cope with real-life trauma and work-related problems that have grown so tangled they resemble Gordian knots. (The drawback to that being that I'm not Alexander and I have no sword.) This afternoon, after receiving a whole slew of angry e-mails at work, I begged the 2 to take me out. "Please please please," I SMSed, "I'm going crazy here."

We ended up heading to Eastwood for food (cheesecake!) and drinks (chai tea latte!) and a movie. We watched The Devil Wears Prada, and below is a three-sentence review.

I liked Miranda Priestley. I enjoyed the movie. Unfortunately, I doubt many people will get the point of the first two sentences.

I could write more -- from impressions on the casting to opinions on the fashion and speculations on the characters' worldviews and histories -- but in essence that sums everything up.

Besides, it's more in keeping with the spirit of the movie -- or at least, that of its title role -- not to explain oneself.