Apparently I am wallowing. Apparently I am rolling around shamelessly in my Jane Eyre/Gothic Romance obsession. Apparently this has not escaped anyone’s notice.
Nobody else in my circle of friends and associates has seen Jane Eyre, and nobody thinks I am quite in my right mind about it. They humor me, I think, but no more.
And then I let it slip the other day at work that I consider Johnny Depp to be basically the Platonic ideal of attractive manhood, and a co-worker has taken it on herself to begin sending me “daily doses of hotness” in the form of images of that flawlessly gorgeous individual. I believe it is meant as a sort of antidote to my unseemly affection for a certain fictional character named Rochester.
I believe I have become the target of an intervention.
In this case, I think the cure is going to turn out to be WAY more fun than the disease.
The emails arrive at random times, so as to take me by surprise. And I have to say that there is something magical about being startled at irregular intervals by momentary flashes of insane hotness.
Truly, there are worse things than occasionally stopping in the middle of one’s round of daily drudgery to look at this:
I have been instructed to undertake a Johnny-Depp-a-thon this weekend.