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"You know what I reeeeeally think of you, Sand?" she slurred

I know. It's been almost a week. But the Americans will understand there was NO TIME. Because you have Wednesday when you get drunk, Thursday when you travel and eat a lot, Friday when you go shopping, and you don't update on the weekend.

Which brings us to today. Also to the fact that CAN I SAY, my headcanon of Charlotte Bronte loving Whitney Houston has become so real to me that when I eventually time travel and bring 16-year-old her to this time and play 'The Greatest Love of All' for her, if she doesn't like it, my world will fall apart. And not just because bringing her forward in time might create some weirdo paradox thingy.

I need coffee. Saturday I did a spin class for the first time, which bruised me in some unfortunate places, and yesterday I ran three blocks for the bus which almost killed me.

Haven't unslumped myself. Still barely reading. It's reeeeeal sad.


me in tortoise form

You know who should get drunk together? George Eliot and George Sand. Because they've already got the lady writer, male pseudonym, roughly contemporaries thing. But then George Sand is 15 years older, FRENCH (you know how they are), and probably had all sorts of shit to talk about with Eliot regarding ethics and women's rights. 

 I don't think Eliot was necessarily as gung ho about women's rights as Sand was, but she didn't have as much of a reason to be. France was still under the early version of the Napoleonic code (made by the dude who apparently said "Nature has made women our slaves," so it wasn't super-nice to them), and Sand wrote a book discussing the way women suffered because of it (Indiana). Eliot was pretty much 'Hey hey, let's not be mean to each other.' Which is nice in its own way.

Anyway. They should get drunk together.

I think I'll just leave this here

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