Stupid Bleak House. Thank you for sucking up 80% of my Thursday with your 7.5 hours of highly plotted drama. I curse Charles Dickens and his craven adjective-slinging plot intrigue. Thank God no one pays for fiction by the word any more(at least as they did for him). I read Underworld once, and one of the many things that book doesn't need is a bunch of knitting scenes. Back to Dostoevesky.
Put me down and shake me up, as Smallweed would say.
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