For a week now, my mind has been reading in Ricky Gervais' voice. It's as though there's a small, white-shirted Ricky Gervais sitting in an office chair inside my head, reading Stephen King to me. My mind has imitated him so well that I'm frankly a little baffled.
But I'm not panicked. All I want to know, is how to coax Gervais out of there so I can move Jeremy Irons or Ralph Fiennes in...
2011 is going to be a reading year. No more 6 month stretches to read a mere 1069 pages [which was the sorry case with Atlas Shrugged] and no more films instead of books. I will certainly watch films, but not at the expense of reading [which was also the case last year].
2010 only contained 13 real books. That is the lowest amount of reading that I have ever sunk to, and it was grossly unproductive and entirely regrettable. To satisfy me, this year must make up for last year, and more.
It took some effort and a lot of hairspray to discover that my hair can actually be manipulated into looking the way I want it to look. If I can just keep up the habit of fussing with it religiously every morning, I believe I'll be on the road to escaping the clutches of undesired androgyny.