Wuthering Heights

I read Jane Eyre in high school.  Since then, I’ve read Jane a few times.  Maybe 5-6 times?  It was, probably, the first classic novel that sucked me in and that I loved.  So, of course, I picked up Wuthering Heights.  I’d heard of it in association with Jane Eyre.  How shall I describe it? How shall I convey my feelings.



Utter and complete hatred?




And that’s the truth with me and Wuthering Heights.  I just didn’t care what happened to what’s-his-name and what’s-her-name.  And why was that other dude involved?  I’d wonder for a second and then be like, oh right, I don’t CARE.

So, I what’s the word?  Lem it?  I lemmed it.  I Did Not Finish.  I don’t think I even read a third of it.

I decided, however, to try it again later.  In my early college days, I picked it up again.  Blech.  Again I lemmed it.

Then it was assgined in my Victorian Lit class, and I tried it again.  My teacher was good at selling it, but there was this part of me again that was like I’ve been down this road before, bitchiz, and I ain’t going down it again.  So, there!  No!  No!  No!  I won’t!



Except, now, I think, maybe I will.

Wahahahaha, starting it today.  If I fall asleep, I’ll let you know.



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