Alright. I have a confession to confess to you. Now, I was raised the Baptist. We express ourselves via the Bundtcake and the Handshake. So this is foreign to me. Um. Hail Mary’s and velveteen pope robes and rabbits and whatnot. Okay, here goes.

I make Sylvia Plath jokes with the best of them. Sylvia Plath references are handy when referring to one’s on purposeful melancholy, or that of other’s. Most of my Sylvia Plath references are used in the presence of, or ABOUT the personage of my good friend William, or Bilbo Baggins to those who know and love.

When we ourselves are having a Sylvia Plath Tea Party of Doom, it looks like this:

Now, William has actually read Sylvia Plath. He’s probably read most everything ever, which is why he is so smart, which is why he is so bittersweet, which is why I love him so much. Also, he is the Gay.

So, yesterday, I finished the first Harry Potter. I found Dumbeldore’s shift from strange man of mysterious to kind friend-person delightful and gratifying. Welp, I needed something new to read, so I wandered into the roomplace of my new roomate, Elizabeth, and asked to borrow a collection of printed word. She reccomended The Bell Jar.

It’s depressing, but you know, She said.

Depressing? I said. Or questioned, rather. Awesome, I said. Let’s do this, because it needs to be done. And I began a -reading.

Also, it should be mention here that I have officially arrived. I.e., my roommate speaks fluent french and plays the violin, which is damn pretty and cute and looks like this:

Elizabeth also has a set of vintage titty playing cards she found in her Grandma’s attic. They look like this:

Hi, iphoto booth. You are useful; necessary. Anywhoo, point being, I’m really enjoying this book, a lot. Lots of morbidly rich sad lines like The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence. Lots of wry comments about pretty girls, hot bath taking, and vivid descriptions of mayonnaise-crab meat resting in beds of avacado.

No, on the for real, it’s not too depressing – yet. Dry/angsty, bitter, but very specific.

More to come on how I digest the rest of this Book.

But for now, I feel like my life/ Bekahperson is really reaching a healthy level of Plathitude. Robe-donning, solitude, pristine amounts of drinking with greasy hair in the dark. This, of course, looks like this:

But no worries, readership; those who care. This lil head is only goin in the oven to fish out of the pieces of burnt banana bread and birthday cake.