Oh Mark Twain (that's not even your real name, is it?), somehow when I read your book, I feel as if you are insulting my intelligence. Is that your intent? Are you trying to prove how ridiculously uninitiated I am? Because it's already been documented.
I'm not sure why I feel condescended to while reading this book. I'd like to use that as my excuse for being so slow in reading it but I'm pretty sure that'd be a lie. I'm liking Huckleberry Finn of which I've only read 135 pages but shhh-we'll-get-to-that later. Somehow, though, I'm not as far as I should be.
Any why is that, by the way? Why can't I stick to my number of pages a day schedule and finish on time? Why do I start late and procrastinate later until it's July 30th* and I have 145 pages to read in less than 48 hours?
Remember the part in She's Just Not That Into You where the main guy who seems like a Justin tells her that girls thrive on drama and that's why we don't pay phone bills until the last minute? That generally did not make sense to me. Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I like having to spend most of my day reading so I can finish this self imposed goal on time? Don't answer that if the answer you're thinking starts with the letter 'y'.
Because I don't enjoy it. Maybe a little but mostly not. I'm a busy person. I have novels to write and tank tops to knit and early episodes of Smallville to watch, not to mention blogs to write and read and YouTube videos to view... (as an afterthought there's also school, supposedly). I do not have eight hours on the last day of every month to finish listening to Mark Twain make supposed jokes that I don't even understand until I read their endnotes and realize, 'Oh that's ironic commentary on drying your socks on the west side of your house.'**
And yet my tomorrow is going to be filled with just that. Only maybe not eight hours. That's dramatic hyperbole.
*Happy Birthday, Neville.
**Footnote for the Alexs to my Mark Twain: this is a joke. I'm pretty sure Mark never had a comment on that.
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