Edith, what the hell are you doing to me?

I've made a vow (again) to write on this blog more. I know, I know, I've said it before, but this time I'm really gonna do it (just like losing all that weight I've been talking about since I was 9). I feel that my book blogging is sub-par because I read academic stuff all the time during the semester, and during breaks I turn into a grotesque sloth-monster that watches movies and plays SIMS2 all day. However, in my previous post (when I started grad school months ago) I promised to include you all in my raping and pillaging of the classics. The discussion of the raping and pillaging starts TODAY. I'm taking a class on Modern American Literature...as in the Modernist movement. Last week we read Sister Carrie which I sopped up like gravy on a biscuit. This week: Edith Wharton's The House of Mirth. Let me say, my past experience tells me Wharton is a winner. A good-time gal. The American version of something Austen'esque--in my mind anyway despite the fact that any scholar worth her salt would slap the fire out of me for comparing the two--that tickles my fancy. Much to my shock and disapproval, this is how the experience has gone so far: Read blurb on back of book. Fondle book appropriately. Labor over whether or not to read the introduction. Decide against it. Read the blurb again. Fondle. Fondle. Begin reading. Reach page 2. Clean the house. Reach page three. Give the dog a bath. Reach page four. Cure cancer. Reach page five. Be overtaken by sleep and boredom-induced convulsions. Edith, what the hell are you doing to me?? This is like plucking my toenails with string attached to a doorknob--tooth pulling style.

Note: There were comments on this post, but I went to edit it when I changed the template and I couldn't changed the text from white to black, thus, empty post. Not sure what's up with that. Blogger glitch, so I'm posting this as a new entry.