So I’ve been seeing a lot, and reading a lot, but almost none of it in full. There are about ten half-watched movies in my Netflix queue, and three partially read books on my nightstand. I BLAME IT ON YOU, GEORGE R.R. MARTIN, FOR CLAIMING THE ENTIRETY OF MY JULY WITH YOUR USELESS BACKSTORIES.
After watching Catfish, I spent an trembly five minutes writing down notes for a blog post about it, and then an excruciating two hours pacing around my apartment, deciding whether or not to write it, or to finish reading Lev Grossman’s The Magicians. Unable to make a decision, and drained from teetering on the brink of a panic attack, I took a very long nap.
This morning, I find myself with a typically long list of “things I would really rather not do, but probably have to do anyway,” and one thing that I actually might enjoy, which is writing the review that will follow this extremely inane introduction.
Without further ado, here it goes:
Catfish is a movie, made by a trio of filmmakers in New York, who are, for lack of a more vitriolic word, complete and utter douchebags.