Yes, comments have been removed and/or rejected. Keep it friendly, yes? Please, no emails/phone calls/letters threatening to take away my Prada; if I had a little dog, then I'd be okay if you took that away, but not the Prada!
I do agree with the notion that comments of a blog entry are like the final bouquet of a fine single malt scotch (to continue with your analogy), and by that same reasoning, I could not publish said comment. But tyrants should have no need to explain themselves. :)
If you're still looking for some excessive violence (of the physical kind) to divert yourself, please rent Ninja Assassin now available at Redbox (my goodness that was a lot of blood!). It was quite interesting how many ways a ninja could kill you. Is it wrong that I found myself laughing at the most gruesome parts (whilst exclaiming, 'Wow, they did not just do that!') instead of cringing with nausea?
But I digress.
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Yesterday, I woke up in a bit of a haze. As this was supposed to have been my week to work, my body rebelled against my desire to stay awake in the daytime and subsequently succumbed to slumber (practicing alliteration) after a moderate lunch.
I woke up in the tepid 80 degree bedroom a few hours later with the fan set on low and my comforter draped lightly over my mid-section. The light shone through the plastic white window blinds as the sun lowered itself to blaze directly into my retinas, as if to say 'Peek-a-boo'. It's like when people notice someone sleeping and instead of letting that person dance with Morpheus, they insist on poking them incessantly with a sharp object.
That's alright: I needed to wake up to get some work done. But after I used a washcloth to remove the gunk from my eyes and a few mints to freshen my breath (as I refuse to brush more than twice a day), I fell languidly face-down on my bed on top of my pillow and covers.
'[Verb form of expletive deleted, (which also happens to be the noun)] the light. I commiserate with vampires, as long as they're not the incredibly dull, excessively melodramatic, ironically holier-than-thou ones in the Twilight saga.'
As luck (or sheer laziness) would have it, my quarter-finished novel laid silently on the floor, with its provocative artist's rendition of the Countess Olenska with eyes that know too much staring off into the abyss of the desperation of her lot.
(okay, since I'm reading her characterization in the book, she is much more attractive than this portrait of her)I resumed my role-playing of Newland Archer, the story's protagonist, in the midst of his growing passion to his betrothed's cousin (the Countess), who happened to be married. And so my afternoon went. And so did my evening. And so did my night.
At the conclusion of Book 1 (which ended on a delightful cliff-hanger), I paused to reflect with the warmth of the setting sun on my face. 'How great it is to wile the time away with a great piece of literature on a Sunday afternoon!'
Except it was Tuesday, and I was still jobless.
But as my reading had reached critical mass, I could do nothing but continue with another chapter. And another. But men don't last all that long (even with the aid of pharmaceuticals), and I stopped for the night.
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My few pieces of materialism aside (a few watches and a wallet), I would hope that Edith Wharton would consider me in the 'no one who loved ideas need hunger mentally.'
One of the first things I will do once moving to a new city to a new job is to get a library card. Why NetFlix when I have all the divertisement of hundreds of years of fine writing at my disposal for free? (Okay, I'll have to NetFlix too, since I can't do without my Grey's Anatomy!*)
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*joking, of course
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