About three weeks ago, at my recommendation, my girlfriend started reading Lolita. She had heard bits and pieces about the acclaimed work, and I gave very little preface about the subject matter. Instead, I addressed what struck me most about the book. "It's beautiful," I said.
"Oh" her eyes shrugged, a drop of skepticism, barely detectable, oozing from her lip. I stood by the comment. It's true, dammit.
About a week in, she had a different look on her face. "This book is sick."
"Yes, true," I conceded apathetically, hoping she would come to ignore the plot and focus, like I did, on Nabokov's masterful word-play and the ingenious depths of character he created. From my disinterest in the "wrongs" to which Lolita was subjected, an air of suspicion grew about our apartment. A oh how it thickened.
Another week passed: most of my Full House DVDs are now missing, play-names like "Baby" and "Sweet Girl" are causing extended self-defensive slap-fit bouts, and trips to her sister's house to visit her three nephews and nieces have become nothing but cold stares and ushering of children from my presence.
Point of fact: my girlfriend, despite my attempts at contradicting her, thinks this blog is mine, that it's not shared, evenly, between myself and:
Enter Whofleck, with his Thursday evening post.
If someone has a spare room, some sun-lotion, anything! it'd be much appreciated. I'm so hot, to tired. I haven't not peed myself in days! I'm on 49th and 10th ave, northeast corner. Bring fire.
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