I dreamed that Obama was forced to participate in a gladiatorial competition, and he gave away his true identity when he was forced to use his signature martial arts move to end a fight.
I started reading the Lymond books again. I say “started again,” because I read the first two last year, and then decided I did not have the patience for the plot and the shenanigans and Lymond never, you know, stuttering, or conjugating a Latin verb wrong, or anything.
But recently my body has started physically rejecting books where someone has to save the whole universe by being nicer than everyone. By this I mean that I toss the books down on the floor and sit irritatedly fiddling with my hat for twenty minutes, without any conscious awareness of my own actions. Perhaps sleep deprivation and job applications are to blame. Perhaps soy cheese.
But this criteria, in any case, appears to disqualify most of my to-read pile, which due to my own emotional immaturity is saturated with just this type of scenario. Some people on my LiveJournal list are reading the Lymond series, and I thought that perhaps my system could handle a book about someone who only partly succeeds at saving relatively small numbers of people by being bitchier than everyone else. So I requested the rest of the series off of ILL to take home with me on break.
In summary: Lymond is a tool. It is a good thing he gets beat up so often, or no one would be able to stand him.
Also in summary: I keep staying up all night reading these -ing things.
I am at home with my *cats*.
Having put a picture of my cat on my Livejournal, I will now sink back into the foul girly-nerd stew which birthed me. That being, in this case, reading a Lymond book.