I turned off Facebook and Twitter in a fit of petulance, and find myself incredibly lonely. I think I'll wait until after my birthday and then re-surface.
Maybe.
I re-read The Great Gatsby, pleased for once to read a short, engaging novel that ends, rather than sprawls over thousands of pages. Fiction to visit, not to live with.
I'll be older than Nick Carraway in a few days. In a few years, I'll out-grow Gatsby. I've been feeling rather Gatsby-ish. Not in a high-living, hopeless attempt to regain a past that never happened kind of way. More in a running away and re-inventing yourself kind of way. Nick tried it, and he went back home at the end of the summer. Gatsby, on the other hand, got shot. So maybe I really feel more like Nick. Or maybe I'm really Nick at the end of the book, fed up with a hopeless, careless, shallow world, but I don't have someplace else to go back to.
It's possible I might actually be living in a different book altogether, I guess.
One of the theatres I work for is opening a show known best for the rape and subsequent mental breakdown of the main character. As it plays over Valentine's Day, it's being promoted as a romance. That's... healthy.
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