Wednesday, March 9, 2011

I feel so cheap.

It's not uncommon for a writer to fall in love with one of their creations.  Stephanie Meyer dreamed of Edward Cullen, Anne Rice was utterly head over heels for Lestat, and so on.  Lest I seem to be picking on the ladies, I also am utterly convinced that George Orwell had a thing for Napoleon.  I'm not talking exclusively about romantic or sexual love, here, though this is a space in which all sexualities in which everyone consents are coolies and I will not abide otherwise.

I, for example, am completely, utterly, ridiculously twitterpated with this jet.

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