Friday night and home watching TV. There is a pile of textbooks taunting me on the opposite chair and I'm on my second cup of tea. I haven't bought my cats yet because I'm allergic- apparently because I wasn't breast fed- but I plan to overcome that obstacle and achieve my full potential.
I'm reading Rebecca at the moment and it is heartbreakingly passionate and romantic. It's the thousandth reworking of Beauty and the Beast (see: Jane Eyre) but the talent of Daphne du Maurier makes it all seem so specific and precise. Like, this story could only have happened at this time, in this place, with these people. Sometimes I wonder if, though love stories are eternal, my own will feel immediate and original like that.
The sister's boyfriend is staying over tonight which means he'll probably be around for most of tomorrow. Hence I have begun planning my getaway but all I can think of to do on a Saturday is go to a library and study. I know; "pathetic" as a general concept is embarrassed by my behaviour.
This post sucks. I guess I'll have to use my endless hours at the local library tomorrow to write another one.