Pride and Prejudice

For the past two weeks, I have harbored a strange and bizarre craving. I kept thinking about it, and thinking about it, and finally I gave in.

I bought a copy of Pride and Prejudice. Which I have read before, along with all the other Jane Austen stuff when I was a kid staying at my Nana's house- mostly because, well, it was there. I don't remember anything but thinking that Mr. Darcy was quite dreamy... probably because I was like, 10 at the time- and I'm guessing that most of it didn't sink in. It's entirely possible that it did, though, on some subconscious level. Because- like, I fucking love it when I think someone is, at first, the most awful person ever, and then have them turn out not to be. It makes my life. I like being surprised. In that way, at least. I much prefer it to the opposite situation, which, unfortunately, is a bit more prevalent.

But if there is anything that makes you feel like a lame-o, it's reading Jane Austen on the bus. Especially when you notice that one part of your skirt that you forgot to attack with the lint brush. And you realize that you're like, that chick. The chick who has some cats and is reading Jane Austen.