A friend of mine sent me two pictures of the great sea of humanity in which she swam at Dulles airport. The first one is rather poetic:
I like the expression on the child's face, utter despair. The resignation is writ large on the adults behind her, yet she is still so full of life, happiness, hope, and innocence and thus she alone can feel the crushing emptiness of this hideous ordeal.
The second picture is completely rage-worthy and sadly unpoetic:
That is indeed a Twilight: the movie tote bag in the hands of one clearly beyond the intended age-range. One could say at least she's reading, but to my ears that insults me and displays a startling lack of faith or hope in America. One could also say that there is no accounting for taste, but to my tongue that says this pathetic creature has no sense of taste left. One could say that she is a sad and lonely person whose life has been rendered empty and cold like the wind-swept barrens of Wyoming, and she reaches toward the story as a plant reaches toward the meager light of the winter sun. To my ears, this is rank and melodramatic hogwash. One might believe such things if only she didn't posses the tote. One might be willing to grant the largest benefit of the sum of all doubt, if not for that tote. I wonder if she has a lifetime subscription to the Harlequin Novel of the Week Club. And I don't mean that the club merely sends out one novel a week, I mean also that they write a novel a week. Find and Replace features heavily in this writing, as does the word turgid. Fye on thee, Satan.