I’ve been meaning to write something here for days, DAYS I TELL YOU, just to get this silly fish post off the top of the page. It serves two main functions now: 1) makes me hungry for fish, and 2) gets that stupid goldfish cracker song stuck in my head. For that, I have no one to blame but myself.
Instead of blogging this weekend, though, I was busy with some extremely advanced levels of relaxation — the kind only intended for professionals and that you should probably not attempt at home without serious training and a good pair of yoga pants. I only briefly interrupted the long slump of sloth in order to re-arrange my office, set up a new bookshelf, and do some quick laundry for this week — tasks which, of course, I waited until yesterday afternoon to even begin. The only times I left the house were to go to Target and make an emergency run to the bookstore. (What? It was a book emergency! More on that later.)
Target. Tar-zhay. Man I love that store, but I swear to you that walking in those beautiful glass doors is like making a tacit agreement to give them one hundred of your dollars. It does not matter if three of the things you wanted are out of stock, or that you only came there for boring necessities like light bulbs, cat litter, and hair elastics. It does not matter that you virtuously eschew the clothing, electronics, and home furnishing sections of the store. Try as you may, you will not escape that giant red building without handing over one hundred dollars.
About that book emergency, though: So, I am a professional reader and all, and I usually like to read things that are, oh, literary. Well written. Sophisticated. That sort of thing. Every now and then, though, I have to indulge my weakness for the ridiculous young-adult fantasy series: Harry Potter, The Chronicles of Narnia, those Douglas Adams books. Of course, as you have surely guessed now, I seem to have fallen into the deep, dark whirlpool of suck that is the Twilight series.
They are so, so bad, see, and I cannot even help myself. I read the first three and a good chunk of the fourth between Saturday night and last night. I know, I KNOW how bad they are, and yet I am powerless under the thrall of sexy vampires, romance, and intrigue. The plots are simple enough that each novel should be about 200 pages long, and yet they sprawl on and on for 500, 600, or 800 pages — the difference being made up by repetitive adjectives and adverbs, mostly. The prose is significantly less sophisticated even than Rowling’s, and that is saying something. Here’s an actual quotation! (THIS IS ACTUAL!)
“His eyes were sad. My eyes were mad.”
Well, it was a holiday weekend, after all, so I suppose it’s all right that my brain take a wee vacation. Right? Or am I actively making myself stupider with every urgently turned page?
What did you do for the holiday weekend? I bet it was a lot better than what I did. Go on and boast!