Well, I'm 30.
In other news, Em and Seamus are in Boston for the weekend. I miss them. I was originally supposed to attend but the stress of having a house full of relatives was giving Em's very delicate Grammie more stress than a woman who had an ischemic attack on New Years' Eve this past year needed to have...so I offered to stay behind and made her pinky swear to have me up in the fall. We've got a deal.
Being home alone like this is RARE. And strange. It reminds me of all the nights I spent at home, alone, single, too broke to go out to the bar and drink with people I wanted to like, but didn't, and people who most certainly didn't like me but dealt with me because they too were drunk (OR they were too drunk; either or). I even decided to reminisce full-force about my singledom and ordered a Pizza Hut stuffed crust pizza, and it's gross. It was always delicious, and now it's gross. Like everything else I had going on four years ago, I guess.
I stayed up late last night, three hours into the sedative effects of my nightly anti-histamine and while I could've very possibly been hallucinating, I found the BBC's Sense & Sensibility miniseries top-notch. I'd give it four heaving bosom-sobs (my rating system, you see). To say I've always had a penchant for pastoral, antiquated, sappy and patriarchal British literature-turned-film is an understatement. There is nothing that will ignite heaving sobs within me more than Mr. Darcy admitting that he loves Elizabeth Bennett. It genuinely makes me the worst feminist queer I could ever possibly be, but at the same time, that's my soft side. That's my tender underbelly, if you will.
Whenever you think that I'm a hard, heartless bitch...remember this. It is my gift to you.