
I'd just like to take a moment to gush a little about Stephen Fry. I love Stephen Fry. I knew a long time ago that I loved Stephen Fry, but reading his autobiography makes me want to squish him up and carry him around in my pocket love him. (Mostly so I can pluck him out now and then to cheer me up).
He has actually reminded me how wonderful it felt to be in love for the first time, no matter how awful the fall-out was, or the shittiness of unrequited love, whatever. Whatever the ending, the beginning, the sheer act of living and experiencing it... I suppose I can't say I regret that. Feeling on a high all the time, being completely aware of how obvious I was, how obsessed, head-over-heels and chastising myself every minute of every day for having to glance in his direction every few seconds, or check the classroom door to see if it was him walking in.
There are a few things in there that make me feel not so alone in the way my mind works, or perhaps the guilt I feel at having certain opinions or emotions.
And goddamned if I never would've guessed that MEN could sit and do something like imagine what lovely name that boy they'd just fallen for at first sight might have, the word that would match the beauty. Running through the alphabet, picking and choosing.
Can't say I've ever done it personally, but there are similar sorts of things I suppose I think of as being part of a woman's imagination? ;D Not in a way that demeans either gender.
I have fifty pages to go, and though I usually go to bed at eleven on a night before a working day, I think I'll be pressing on to finish this before I lay down tonight.