bronte

earlier, was bemoaning the fact that i didn't live in a time when listening to your heart was more appropriate than listening to your head. i wish i lived in a time when i could be an angst-ridden eccentric attic-dweller who dressed in a man's clothes (and still shocked people for doing so), and wrote long sweeping epic novels. of course, i'd probably have to be dying of consumption at a tragically young age. mind you, given the quality of the coughing going on in this part of the world, this evening, i could be very well dying of consumption even as we speak. mike b. gave me honorary bronte status. so, henceforth, i shall think of myself as bronte.

this is by no means a hubris-inspired overinflated estimate of my writing skill, mind you. just a faint longing for scribbling in a notebook while walking along mist covered craggy moors and a torrid romance to write about...