Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Okay, so it's my lunch, and normally I go to the fifth floor of the library and curl up on a couch and take a nap, but I have come down with fits of Elphabitis and the idea of going out in the rain makes me feel kind of green right now, so I am being lazy, staying at my desk and writing instead.
My favorite book in the whole wonderful blazing universe is called The Only Alien on the Planet. It's about a girl named Ginny who moves across the country right before her senior year of high school (btw really kind of her parents, that one) and she of course feels completely left of center because she doesn't know anyone, and nothing is familiar. Then she starts to make friends, and this guy named Smitty Tibbs falls into her life, who doesn't talk or look at anyone or essentially react in any way with the rest of the universe.
It's a wonderful and beautiful book, (I own three copies) and I read it probably every six months or a year, in two hours or less. Usually in the middle of the night while I cry my eyes out over someone or something that has little or nothing to do with the actual story. But the book is my catharsis. Why? Because I am Smitty. I am Ginny. I find myself identifying with the main characters so much because I know exactly where they have been and how they feel and that it sucks. But if they can get through it, then I can, right? And I know they can, because they do, every time. It just gives me hope. I dunno, does any of this make sense?