WORDS, MOUTH, COFFEE.

I know it will shock all of you buttercups to hear that I was especially EMO in high school. I was the theatre girl who read and wrote poetry, had several politically-charged bumper stickers on my 1994 Burgundy Ford Taurus (named “Scarlet.”) I did my tenth grade English research project comparing the works Gertrude Stein and Adrienne Rich, not giving a single damn that I went to an ultra-conservative Christian school. (That also hatched the likes of Marilyn Manson, so I was in good emo company.¹) For the weeks I worked on the project, I was constantly quoting them to myself, falling ever more in love with their verse.

“If a magpie in the sky on the sky can not cry if the pigeon on the
grass alas can alas and to pass the pigeon on the grass alas and the 
magpie in the sky on the sky and to try and to try alas on the
grass alas the pigeon on the grass the pigeon on the grass and alas.
They might be very well they might be very well very well they might
be.”–GS

“At most we’re allowed a few months
of simply listening to the simple
line of a woman’s voice singing a child
against her heart. Everything else is too soon,
too sudden, the wrenching-apart, that woman’s heartbeat
heard ever after from a distance
the loss of that ground-note echoing
whenever we are happy, or in despair.”–AR

I reveled in the text. I gloried in the episteme that the narrow-minded educational confines within which I was currently being held, were merely chimerical bonds made of fear and feeling of stone. I knew that I could, in fact, burst forth from those chains like so much sugar filament, learning for myself–thinking for myself.

It was more glorious than the first time I saw King Lear performed, which was, up to that moment, the top slot of my totem in my quest for more knowledge than CS Lewis and King David. (nothing against either author)

I suppose, it will also not surprise you one lick that in the end of my emo stretch I came across a girl on TV who was bookish and awesome, and I immediately took to her like a fish to water…

I know, you’re again shocked beyond reason.

Ahhh, Rory and Lorelai. You adorable Gilmore Girls, you. Your speedy and witty dialogue. Amy Sherman Palladino, you are my hero.  I have watched every episode at LEAST three or four times.

Alas, for some reason (I live in NYC and therefore haven’t storage space) I OWN NOT ONE EPISODE. NOT ONE.

Well guess what, scamps of my heart? NETFLIX GETS GG ON STREAMING ON OCT 1. Every pithy moment. Every BOOK RORY HAS EVER READ.  (join me in the challenge? let’s goodreads it, shall we?)

This was me when I was first told:

I put it up on my facebook was and was positively inundated with responses like “There goes October!” and “NO EFFING WAY, REALLY?”

My feels are falling out of my face! I can’t help it! I’m going to binge-watch to the point where you wonder if I’ve joined some sort of Netflix-watching, Captain Crunch eating, wine-guzzling cult, that all revolves around Stars Hollow. 

I know, I have a triathlon on Nov 1. I know that I can’t dedicate every waking moment to dialogue-driven entertainment. That doesn’t mean I won’t try. I mean, do I really need to bathe?

It’ll get me through. It’ll get me through. It’ll get me through.

So, If we never speak again, because the GG k-hole swallows me and sends me through a standing stone to 2002 Connecticut, it’s been real, and Thanks, Netflix. 

¹I once met MM in a grocery store…looking normal, save the eyebrow thing, and told him we both went to this high school. He squeezed my shoulder reassuringly and said “I’m sorry for your loss.” I love him evermore.