OMG do I need to get that self important drama llama ding dong from Tuesday off the top shelf! It hurts to look at it, but look at I do and do and do. I'm obsessed with my own experiences. I'm obsessed with squeezing every fucking drop of meaning out of every gosh darn thing.
Hello, calling Mrs. M. Umm, that's how you roll. So deal.
And deal I do. But today (yeah!) I am beginning to grasp at the fringes of self mockery and it feels awesomesauce. A.W.E.S.O.M.E.S.A.U.C.E. Ring around the drama llama.
I've decided to blame Wharton for this recent setback. I finally took out a book and used my eyes to read it and it wasn't about Bella fuckin' Swan. Miracle of miracles! (OMG! what's that song?!? - "vanity of vanities the
whole thing is a vain parade" - Hand of God, Soundgarten.) (Yes, welcome to two knits, the home of the vain parade. Snerk.)
I haven't picked up Wharton in many years and my perspective on her writings has changed. I love that. Someone always suffers greatly in the works I've read of hers. And her snark is subtle. Not like Jane. Jane bites you in the ass and then let's you get married to the man of your dreams.
I love Jane but I haven't been able to read her in over a year and a half. I miss her terribly, but I'm not ready yet. (Or am I? I think I just felt a hankering for the first chapter of Mansfield Park.)
And I may have finally grasped at Jane's chronic need to deposit erectile functional happy endings amid so much acidic social commentary. I don't have the words yet. It's probably best I keep my clumsy fumblings to myself.
I now leave you with another set of beautiful skeins dyed by Sundara:
