Moving house is purgatory. So is getting ready to go to college. Going to peoples' houses with my highly excitable dog when they're potential new homes for him and seeing them get all dubious at his bug-eyed anxious freakery while I'm trying to sell them on the idea of adopting him like "he's really mellow at home!" when I really really really do not want to lose my dog in the first place but I have to because my parents are moving into on-campus housing to go back to school and can't have a dog is hell.
(oh golly don't you love my sentence construction?)
Anyway, on a more cheerful note, years ago I promised myself when I first heard the name "The Scarlet Pimpernel" that I would never ever ever love either the character or the story because the name was too ridiculous to support love. Flash forward to the Friday before last, and I was over at Friend Bethany's house with another of her friends for a girly crafting night and we decided to watch a movie and we were looking in Friend Bethany's DVD cabinet and we were definitely going to watch a period film and Friend Bethany's other friend saw The Scarlet Pimpernel (1982) in there and was like "hey it's got Gandalf let's watch that" and Friend Bethany and I were like "k" so we watched it.
It. Was. Awesome. I can't believe I'm saying that, but I am. It was like the misbegotten French Revolution love-baby of Robin Hood and Lord Peter Wimsey. On crack. In really tight pants. Maybe I just liked it because all the stress of moving is making me cling harder to sources of escapism, I don't know, that could be it, because that movie just took me completely out of myself (which was awesome).
(...i might actually have to read the book)
ALSO ALSO ALSO, speaking of Lord Peter Wimsey, LOOK WHO SHOWED UP OUT OF NOWHERE
Oh, Mr Bunter. What comfort you bring to my saddening days.