Reaching Near Good

Last night, I put heavier blankets on the bed and was warm for the first night in about two months.

So of course I dreamt I was engaged to Benedict Cumberbatch, but he'd been deceived into thinking he was in love with someone else and Martin Freeman and I had to track him down and make him remember me.

I haven't even seen any Sherlock since series three came out, which I've not watched past the first episode because I kind of loved and hated it.  It felt like it was pandering, and while I enjoyed being pandered to, I didn't really like knowing that I felt like I was being pandered to.

There's a joke about Chinese bears to be made here, but I don't know what it is.  

This morning, I thought nothing of the dream, but learned this afternoon that Benedict Cumberbatch had, indeed, gotten engaged to someone who wasn't me.  I'm waiting for Martin Freeman to show up.

There's an old trope that comes up about women in power, and how for one week a month you can't trust their decisions, and this joke, or whatever it is, really tends to make women angry because they claim it's not true.  I'd love to know how they do it.  I'm incapable of rational thought about four days every month, and I know exactly why.  Before I was on birth control, I thought maybe this was just a coincidence, because the correlation wasn't clear, but now that I know exactly what day of the week I am going to be irrationally angry, and when I'm going to be ludicrously restless, and which days I'm going to feel like crap (that would be now), I'm glad that I'm not in any position of real power, because warring nations would just sit there with the calendar and say, "Yes, yes, we'll just wait until Thursday."

Though really, I never have gotten the hang of Thursdays.

You know that moment where you could make a Middlemarch joke, and you realise that pretty much no one would get it even if you explained it?

I'm always surprised to discover that Douglas Adams and George Eliot overlap in my mind in quite the way they do.