No man is an island. Unfortunately.

Roald Dahl is a literary god. His ability to weave anything from everything and paint it in your head in such a way that you're right there with the people you're reading about, leaping everywhere in BFG's ear, moving chalk dusters with the power of your mind and actually LIKING life-sized bugs *shivers* gets me every time. There's a certain magic that this man practically single-handedly created, something I wish I could do - the magic of children's fiction. This man is the reason my mind works the way it does sometimes. He's kind of a dealbreaker during 'oh,so who's your favorite author?' conversations. In a parallel universe, I'm sitting at his feet in unadulterated awe, imbibing a wealth of deliciously fantastical knowledge and making up words.

Apparently, though, the person he was in real life probably wouldn't have let me. Supposedly, Dahl was actually kind of...well, mean. He was the old scrooge on the corner waving his walking cane at children for being too loud. People say this is why his vile characters were so deliciously vile - he had an excellent template. The irony is that, of course, that the man wrote CHILDREN'S BOOKS.

I guess I expect everyone who writes children's books to look like Mother Hubbard et al. Most of the time,they don't. There's still a part of me who wants to be an editor for children's books and I *whispers* don't even like children. I wonder if Dahl was aware of this lack of synchrony? Do you think all mean people know that they are so?

Today I was forced into self-reflection. I loathe self-reflection. A much overrated pastime that prompts me into having to admit that perhaps I am not as simply awesome as I assume, and as I assume everyone sees me, and the sun does not rise and set in my every orifice, and my benevolent nature and loving deeds are not garnished with the constant Helen Steiner Rice quotes that incessantly fall from my discerning lips. Golly,I loathe self-reflection. The idea that I have to be truthful about myself to myself, because after all, I'll know if I'm lying? *gasps* Who thinks these things up?

The thing is, though, most of the time, I'm quite fine with my flaws. I feel like,much like battle scars,they add colour to my life,and indeed,character. Perfection is a tad dull,truth be told. No offence, religion. Ha. So what's a little spite here and there? The idiot probably deserved it. The selfishness? Well, I never claimed to be a saint. Low standards means not much to live up to,whoopee! Less energy on my part. I've found ways around my flaws such that if they don't bother me enough to change them, I own them. (that's what I and every other self-help/black American movie call it) I accept it,and it becomes a joke. Because the way I see it,life is really about choice, and I like having the choice to be imperfect.

Unfortunately, obviously, society, being a perennial wet blanket and having spied the glorious fun I'm having not giving a **, sometimes decides to rain on my self-absorbed parade (I think I've used the word 'self' in this post a record number of times) with the downpour of reason. Unfortunately, once again, man is not an island. Damn, damn, damn. And so, some habits must be forfeited for the sycophantic twit of Propriety, or the needling hag, Norms. They're kinda like the two ugly stepsisters - you really wish they didn't exist, but you wouldn't have an amusing supporting cast without them. Come to think of it, I'm not sure that amusing is the word I'd use...

Sometimes, though self-love - also of the showerhead variety - is great, you must decide what of yourself you are willing to give up for the love of others who you cannot do without. You decide where that line is drawn, the line where you start giving yourself up for something you think might be worth it. When you start giving a **. They keep saying it's not all about you, that there IS a bigger picture...but how much do 'they' know, really? 'They' don't even technically have names!

This is the point of that entire rant, can you believe it? Not the contemplation of a certain loose pronoun. A painful lesson I am learning about choice, and about myself, which may just lead me to the Path of Many Cats. People really are overrated. But the thing is, regardless,everyone wants someone other than their reflection to think they're the bee's knees, and does anyone really want to become the twisted recluse living on top of the haunted hill who eats puppies and drove everyone away with his black irredeemable heart? *sighs* I don't know what to do, but some dude said to thine own self be true,right? He was probably on exile.

tSN