?

Log in

No account? Create an account
 
 
Harleigh Maureen Cooper
17 February 2009 @ 12:24 pm
~Happy birthday Billie Joe Armstrong of Green Day~!

I am one of those melodramatic fools, neurotic to the bone, no doubt about it! Sometimes I give myself the creeps. Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me. It all keeps adding up. I think I'm cracking up!Collapse )


I'm reading one of the Oscar Wilde murder mysteries by Gyles Brandreth, The Ring of Death and it was just brilliant. I've been reading for four hours and I'm in chapter 16. I don't intend to finish soon because I want to savor the sensuality and thrill of the novel. It was just immensely enjoyable! Wilde was portrayed exactly as how I felt he should be in real life; I was hypnotized. I love the fact that Arthur Conan Doyle and Bram Stoker are there. And that Doyle really wants to kill off his Sherlock Holmes (which is common knowledge.) He was like, "In my mind and in my heart he is already dead. But in my bank account he still quivers and twiches." HILARITY! XD There are many interesting characters there as well and mentions of Henry Irving which was cool in itself. The Socrates Club (with Wilde as chairman) was a treat especially their game of "Murder" where the fourteen guests will write down names of people they wish to murder and then the papers will be drawn from a hat and will be read aloud and they will guess who wants to murder the name mentioned. Oscar Wilde's name was drawn, as well as his wife, Constance. Sherlock Holmes too (let's leave the murdering to Doyle) and even 'Old Father Time' and 'Eros' were plotted against (really cute). Anyway, one chapter I loved there that sent my fangirl radar berserk was when Wilde mentioned that 'Sebastian' is his alter-ego (because it was a Shakespearean character and a saint's name). I went totally giddy over it. It was an erotic information, really. I felt all the nerve endings in my body getting titilated that I was tempted to roll around the floor, kicking my legs up in the air but I was in no condition to indulge myself so because I was in the office with my students around. I couldn't possibly explain the puzzling sight to them, if it ever occurred. So I contained it and now I got home and I started rejoicing like a the literature slut I was born to be. Fantastic, I tell you!

But I wasn't feeling good earlier that day. I went to the bookstore, saw girls fucking their brains over Twilight books and then they saw the Oscar Wilde book displayed beside it and one girl was like, "Oh I know about him in Lit. class. He's nothing but a FAT FAG." It took years of self-restraint with Palahniuk's Snuff and Murakami's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle clutched tightly on my hands at that time not to strike her in the face. Bitch. I want to stab her in the eyes and laugh maniacally while doing so. Bitch. What the hell does she know about Wilde-sensei? Her fuck choice of reading Twilight certainly doesn't earn her a shit-load of respect! I still look back at this and I'm very full-pledged on killing her. The hatred is intense. I can honestly swear I have never hated a stranger like this before.
 
 
Current Mood: ecstaticecstatic