24/03/2002 - 3:51 p.m.

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

At least when I forget something I tend not to manage to do it twice. Of course, generally it's too late by that time, but, yes. I know my charge for this evening then.

I ought to swear off Charlotte Bronte, Edith Wharton, and Lucy Maud Montgomery. I think my brain would be of much sterner stuff if I could leave off reading their drivel for a while. How dare anyone suggest that Victorianism and Romantisim are of different tendencies? As far as I can see, they're the same ruddy thing in a different time period. If Jane and Maddie and Anne could just stay on the shelf I wouldn't suffer half the trials I do.

Of course, it's my own fault. I'm the one who takes them off the shelves. I'm the one who, at my own peril, allows fancy to intermingle with reality after closing the pages. I'm also the one who will keep reading over passages of Tolkien and of the Chronicles. This last is my greatest mistake. The book was written some time before I came across it, there is nothing there written to any specific purpose. It has some similarities, most of them read in by yours truly. If such symbolism was searched for in my own works, I know quite well that it could be found, in rather altered form, but suiting symbolism none the less (though if approached, the point would be argued out of existance). Yet such symbolism is exactly what I wish to find.

You critisise this same trait in your English teachers, waxing pendantic over poor pathetic TB-stricken Keats and his love for the young lady in France. You see the parallel here and hate yourself for it. Even now, you hope that someone is reading too much into the riddles you believe yourself to have written into this entry not quite so subtley as to be hidden entirely.

The question is: why am I doing it? The answer is, quite simply, because I'm silly. Because some days I simply cannot believe that the greater part of eternity lies before me. Because patience is a virtue and I have no virtues.

And lastly, because you delight in tormenting yourself with your silliness. You would be far better (as would everyone else) to pay no heed to this laspe of character and style, borrowed from Miss Bronte and instilled with your own words, and simply to hope that Sunday finishes quickly because Monday comes after and there will be educational diversions and postal services for you to be caught up in.