It's depressing to be sitting in the sunshine reading a book as morose as The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and to realize I empathize so much with the protagonist ("Oh yes, I know just how that feels!"). I probably ought to stick with lightweight stuff if I want to cure my head of its ills. Unfortunately I left Noel Streatfield's "Party Shoes" at homem because I wanted to push myself a little harder to read some literature instead of good, healthy fluff.
And with that, I'm off to see a play about having a stroke.
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