If I’m being completely honest, I like to imagine myself as a Lizzie Bennett-esque protagonist in my Darcy-less life. But if I’m being realistic, I’m more of a Miss Bates, of Emma infamy. More often than not I find myself blathering on about someone else’s much more interesting life much to the tired patience of a condescending audience. The upside of having a blog I force myself to write in is that I can spill out the inanities I’ve built up and work on listening to others rather than boring them with my obnoxious anecdotes.

Mr. Woodhouse (Emma's father), Emma and Mr. Knightley

If you couldn’t tell I finished watching the new BBC miniseries of Emma. So, so, so good. Much better than the feature with Ms. Paltrow (although I do like that one… nothing can top a BBC adaptation of Austen, why are they so quality!?), the whole cast was superb. Really just an all around great watch. Emma is an interesting character because she is so frustrating. With some other Austen characters you’re frustrated by their actions, but with Emma you just want her to grow up, which she does. And then everything gets all sweet and lovey dovey.

With Mr. Knightley’s steady admiration from afar lingering in my mind and, I suppose, with Valentine’s Day on the horizon (and Pretty in Pink playing on We in the background, oh what, like you don’t watch We), I’m in a spot where I like to romanticize things. Which, blah. But also, when I say romanticize I don’t mean in the “swooooon” sense, I mean it in the idyllic sense. You know, where everything sort of turns into a Degas/Rockwell/Monet painting. Yea, exactly that.

Well before my watercolor tinted world goes eschew I’d better put my feet back on the ground and get my mind ready for bed.

à demain, mes chères

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