So it goes.

I read entirely too much.
Which seems rather impossible, really; it would appear that most people do not read nearly enough.
But I think I’ve reached that point of referencing things that there is no feasible way that anyone my age will ever, ever know what I am talking about, or understand that I am making a reference in the first place. Maybe they’ll think I’m just being witty, or saying something odd; or, most likely, they will not think anything at all–about anything. I could speak entirely in iambic pentameter and I doubt anyone would notice. I could speak in Olde English, and probably still only get barely-fazed glances.

So it goes.

I suppose, my former English Teachers would be proud of me. I suppose.
My ability to–still, to this day, years later, and quite irrelevantly–explain the careful nuances in stories and novels. I can still quote Hemingway, Plath, Poe, Vonnegut, Kerouac, and so on and so forth.
But come on. Does anyone else know the plight of Sibyl Vane?

A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook.
It can talk, talk, talk.

I find myself easilly comparing people I know to characters in books.
[And serial killers, which was an alarming realization: partially because I can compare my friends to serial killers; partially because I am familiar enough with information about serial killers that I can easilly make those comparisons.]
Will I always be Lady Lazarus?

I guess what I’m trying to say is: I will always love the Jay Gatsbys of the world more than the Billy Pilgrims.

And I should really sleep instead of pondering this.