Bookish

"Maybe you'll fall in love with me all over again."
"Hell," I said, "I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?"
"Yes. I want to ruin you."
"Good," I said. "That's what I want too."

Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms is sitting on my bed right now. I am so excited to read this book. My giddiness at new books pairs well with my dream of being an old woman who goes on neighbourhood walks, drinks gin, and reads all day long. It's not a bad future.

I had a dream last night where I was at some sort of fashion show with Alexa Chung, Imogen Poots, and various other glamorous women. Beforehand, I ran into Dree Hemingway. She's Ernest Hemingway's great-granddaughter, a fashion model, and actress. In my dream, she was a fabulous, gay man who was a prolific writer. Apparently, I had sent him a short story of mine. He told me he loved it, while smoking a cigarette, wearing sunglasses and an ascot while sitting on a low garden wall.

Not too long after, someone yelled to us that Ernest Hemingway had ruined the Toronto Star by writing for it. I screamed some expletives at them and probably threw something. 

What is my mind.