it is a truth universally acknowledged.

i have been reading lately.

because that's what i do.
alllll too often.


pride and prejudice is like nourishment to the hole inside of me that is starving.

i have read it before, liked it even. but never have i really understood it. for what it's worth, at least. if you haven't read it, get yourself down to barnes and noble pronto. skip your way down the aisle to the b&n classics shelf, and snag one of these 5$ paperbacks. you will love me for this. and if you don't, well. you just must not be cut out to be my friend.

just kidding. i still like you.

but anyway. back to this little story.

reading it before, it was just it. you know. when something is just there. but this time... different story. i'm not sure if it's because i'm older now, and more interested in it, or if it just consumed me this time in a way that nothing else has. literature seems to have that effect/affect {i have no clue which one to use. you probably don't either. because that homonym is sneaky. and it probably fools you too. but if it doesn't, you're famous.} on me.

do you ever feel like when you're reading, you're not in your living room anymore? that sounds laaaame. and cliche. but i'm serious. it's like when my mind is engaged in the afternoon activities at netherfield, i am no longer laying on my carpet, book in hand, flipping my ponytail. i'm a guest at the bingley manor in a big pastel dress and my gloves are made of lace.

mr. jack wickham, though i very well know the kind of person he is, in the beginning of the book i will admit that i, too fall pathetically into his hands. figuratively speaking of course...

before i get too wrapped up in this and keep myself up until too early in the morning talking about derbyshire, i believe i have made my point. literature just pumps breath into me in a way i can't explain to you until you breathe it in yourself.


screw this, i'm going to read.