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The Brontes are basically my default mental topic, but y'know, whatever, man

Despite all the instincts of the better part of my soul, here I sit typing and attempting to form coherent sentences. So goes the human condition! Soldiering on in the face of any adverse circumstances. Not that I'd be doing this if I had the option of napping. Then I'd say "Fuck adverse circumstances" and go to sleep. But as I do NOT, here I am, a triumph of millions of years of evolution, with a brain and the current semi-ability to walk upright and all that comes with those startling attributes.



I spend a lot of time thinking about the Bronte sisters. Mostly because they're really easy to make fun of. THEY JUST FEEL SO MUCH. Oh. Except Anne. I mean, she feels stuff. But I'd never make fun of her. Because it always feels like she's kicked around by the other two, even though she was NOT, it just feels that way because that's what the literary public's done.

Public, may you be cast into the pit of Endless Remorse and Thinking-It-Over-Again, for while Tenant of Wildfell Hall is not the greatest piece of literature in the Western world, neither is fucking Shirley. AND Agnes Grey actually shows how horrible being a governess was. Which was a HUGE PART of the Brontes' lives, but their books address it zero. Zeeeeeero. Anne had to do it. And it's a charming, awesome book that made me viscerally angry when one character acted like a bitch, and it's always the snail's petticoats when that happens.


I've said before that a big problem with the Millennial generation is we are rarely sincere because sincerity opens one up for being made fun of. And I'm not helping my case with talking about the Brontes, but they were such a weirdass meld of Romantic and Victorian, where it's like "STRICT MORALITY -- but oh hey there, whipping winds and fiery storms and illicit love -- BUT WAIT LET ME TIGHTEN MY STAYS A BIT MORE BECAUSE GOD DOESN'T WANT US TO BREATHE."


Also they're three women (after their other sisters died), living pretty much alone in this house in Northern England, next door to a cemetery (noooot thinking about their drinking water) and egging each other on with the guys they find attractive, who are all like their brother and it's weird but hey, isolated family in the 1800s. Okay.


I hate Romanticism. I can tolerate/love the Brontes despite it because they're less self-indulgent than the poets. "Behold how much I adore this tree/Oh! the palpable specialness of me." Boooooooo. You be self-aware, damnit, and you be it now.



The Brontes should be the irritating next door neighbors who sometimes walk with me to the 7-11 for snowcones. And then Emily starts to talk about the endless vista provided by the plains of Illinois and I'll say 'EAT YOUR DAMN SNOWCONE, EMILY.' 

That's all I want.

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