Conan Doyle sank my ship
I have less than 100 pages remaining in the last ever Jeeves book that I'll read for the first time. My melancholy: let me show you it. I'm being ridiculous, I know, but I don't think I've actually cared so much about a series since H2G2 (way back when) or Narnia (...even wayer back when) and I don't know, I just hate that some things have to end. Especially when they're so gosh darn lovely. And when I've fallen head over heels for the main character.
Even more ridiculous, I know, but I'm having a hard time convincing myself that Bertie's anything less than the most perfect man who ever inhabited his own literary world. Plenty iffy about the chap, of course, and it's not a romantic love so much as I just want to cuddle him forever and protect him from the world (made even sillier because he already has Jeeves for all that), but I just can't help loving the guy. Love him so much I could cry. It's so bad I get excited just hearing the name "Bertram" now (Cooper of Sterling Cooper in Mad Men, Ricky Gervais's new movie, a Jomework group this week in 3.016...). But...it's just...I...well. It's lame and embarrassing and I can't do a thing about it. Just like most crushes. And at least it's not Edward Cullen I have a thing for, right?
More to the point, Joy in the Morning is slowly creeping on my favorite novels list, and I'm sure by the time I'm done it'll be right up there with The Mating Season. I am still determined to find these (i.e. my abolute favorites, although the whole collection would be nice) somewhere, even if it takes me until the end of my college career. I'm sure there are about a zillion used bookstores in and around Boston anyway; I'll just keep going til I get lucky.
Back to work tomorrow. As much as I like making money, I'll be incredibly happy to get my spectacular Tuesdays and Thursdays back again. Sailing whilst on my period will likely not be much fun. It's nights like these when I wish I had the ability to give my uterus up for adoption. As it is, it's making me tired and cranky and really unwilling to do any kind of useful schoolwork. My fault for putzing around all day, true, but I still blame it tangentially. Or sinusoidally, take your pick. (My hatred for it is so steep it's approaching the perpendicular. I'm approaching the limit of my pain threshold. My thoughts are all piecewise. (I'm going to strangle myself if I don't stop.))
Ugh. What a fine tribute to a fantastic writer that turned out to be. I fail completely. Wodehouse does not. To steal one of Jon's, are you a fan of joy? Do you like...happiness? Then read his books. They are, hands down, the funniest things ever written in English. And I'm a Douglas Adams fan. But then, he was a Wodehouse fan too, so it all comes full circle, as it were.
Whatever. None of this is making sense anymore, if indeed it ever did, which I doubt. I need sleep, so that's what I'm going to do. Buh-bye. I can only pray for coherence and a return to common sense in the morning.
Even more ridiculous, I know, but I'm having a hard time convincing myself that Bertie's anything less than the most perfect man who ever inhabited his own literary world. Plenty iffy about the chap, of course, and it's not a romantic love so much as I just want to cuddle him forever and protect him from the world (made even sillier because he already has Jeeves for all that), but I just can't help loving the guy. Love him so much I could cry. It's so bad I get excited just hearing the name "Bertram" now (Cooper of Sterling Cooper in Mad Men, Ricky Gervais's new movie, a Jomework group this week in 3.016...). But...it's just...I...well. It's lame and embarrassing and I can't do a thing about it. Just like most crushes. And at least it's not Edward Cullen I have a thing for, right?
More to the point, Joy in the Morning is slowly creeping on my favorite novels list, and I'm sure by the time I'm done it'll be right up there with The Mating Season. I am still determined to find these (i.e. my abolute favorites, although the whole collection would be nice) somewhere, even if it takes me until the end of my college career. I'm sure there are about a zillion used bookstores in and around Boston anyway; I'll just keep going til I get lucky.
Back to work tomorrow. As much as I like making money, I'll be incredibly happy to get my spectacular Tuesdays and Thursdays back again. Sailing whilst on my period will likely not be much fun. It's nights like these when I wish I had the ability to give my uterus up for adoption. As it is, it's making me tired and cranky and really unwilling to do any kind of useful schoolwork. My fault for putzing around all day, true, but I still blame it tangentially. Or sinusoidally, take your pick. (My hatred for it is so steep it's approaching the perpendicular. I'm approaching the limit of my pain threshold. My thoughts are all piecewise. (I'm going to strangle myself if I don't stop.))
Ugh. What a fine tribute to a fantastic writer that turned out to be. I fail completely. Wodehouse does not. To steal one of Jon's, are you a fan of joy? Do you like...happiness? Then read his books. They are, hands down, the funniest things ever written in English. And I'm a Douglas Adams fan. But then, he was a Wodehouse fan too, so it all comes full circle, as it were.
Whatever. None of this is making sense anymore, if indeed it ever did, which I doubt. I need sleep, so that's what I'm going to do. Buh-bye. I can only pray for coherence and a return to common sense in the morning.