My sister just informed me that Andrew Lloyd Weber has written a sequel to The Phantom of the Opera, entitled Love Never Dies.
This is not acceptable.
If you’ll excuse me, I am off to earn my doctorate and invent a machine that lets me jump–I’m still working out the terminology here–between parallel worlds.
Probably going to stop shaving for a while, too.
Do we treat beached docks the same way we treat beached whales?
They played a punk-rock cover of Call Me Maybe during the West Coast Swing hour at dance practice tonight. It was the peanut butter and chocolate of my terrible taste in music.
Yesterday I discovered that the overwhelming majority of my office is reading pornographic Twilight fanfiction. I felt like I was one of the last islands of humanity in a sea of… of… infected. (The title of this post is a topical reference, not a commentary on my posting frequency.)
Making things even more creepy, nobody referred to it by name. It was always “how far along are you?” or “which book are you on?” or “how’s the book?” Nothing else was discussed; the subject was assumed by all. Gave me chills.
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