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Delightful Fairy Folk or Sad Holocaust Talk

So I found out last night that when faced with reading either The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland or Sophie's Choice, I will always opt to read about a little girl wading through piles of gold and consorting with wyverns. In my defense, Sophie's Choice is currently alternating (hah! alternating current) between stories of the author's first sexual experience and Rudolf Hess's invention of the gas chambers, so it's not really at an "Oh I TOTALLY want to pick this up right now" kind of place.

No, I am operating on an I HAVE DEADLINES reading schedule right now, which means I keep having to figure out which book has precedence, because I obviously need to finish things before 2012. Not doing so will not be tolerated. By me. But, while I have to finish Sophie's Choice; Speak, Memory; Understanding the Woman of Mozart's Operas  and State By State by the end of the year, I also have to read appx. nine chapters of The Help each week, and the dilemma last night was brought about by the realization that The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland is due back at the library today and I can't renew it because some bastard requested it.* 

So now I have to pay 20 cents a day until I finish it, and since my hold-on-to-those-Beanie-Babies-and-they'll-be-worth-something theory hasn't panned out yet, I am not made of money. Plus that book's way short and really fun and a lot less depressing to read than Mr. Holocaust + Sexual Feelings Book. Not that I'm anti-sexual feelings. I just, as previously stated, prefer that they revolve around ladies in corsets.

Bow chicka bow bow

Anyway, expect much panicking and flailing come December, because despite setting myself very rigid deadlines, I also suck at keeping them. And Nabokov is HARD, damnit. Did I ever tell you all I took a class on him in college just because my favorite professor was teaching it? And we had to read eight of his books? EIGHT. I have read as many Nabokov novels as Dickens. That is unacceptable.  Because I want to squish Dickens' novels, and Nabokov's I pretty much tolerate at best. But I begrudgingly admit he isn't bad, so I'm going to read his damn autobiography, which will force me to think about every single word he's chosen and will not have any fun character names, like Mrs. Pardiggle.

Let me end this with a Doctor Who gif, because I can and because you all should watch that show (I LOVE IT SO MUCH):

*(i'm sure they're actually very nice)


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