Would it be weird if I told you that I spent all weekend burrowed in a Harry Potter book, and that it made me feel slightly better about my situation in life? I mean, surely I could have just glanced around at all the suffering going on around me, in, you know, reality, for a wake-up call, but apparently it was much more effective coming from a lightening-scarred boy wizard.
About one-hundred pages into book seven, for the second time, it finally hit me: what’s the point in being bummed about your entry-level job or the fact that you have no idea where you’ll be living in six months when the death eaters are mobilizing, Dumbledore’s dead, and no one seems to have any fucking clue where the horcruxes are?
Exactly. That shit is serious.
But whatever. I’ll take what I can get, and if clinging to a life built on a hat that talks and a transportation network built into fireplaces is the only thing that snaps me out of my self-absorption bordering on self-pity, so be it.
So that’s what I’ve been up to: flying through page after page of J.K. Rowling’s words, mourning the wizard life I’m sure I could have lived, if only that letter from Hogwart’s hadn’t gotten lost in the muggle mail, and vowing to snap out of this latest little funk by the time Thanksgiving comes.
I hope your weekend was just as exciting.