Tuesday, July 27, 2010
I still blame Scarlett for my bad taste in men, my graviation to Rhett Buttler types who say what they mean and mean what they say and will back you up against a wall before you even know what's happening. I was 16 when I found the novel, and amazingly had yet to see the movie, but after spending three straight days sprawled across my bed, sometimes in tears, despite my mother calling me to dinner and the pile of algebra and AP Bio homework I should have been working on, I was absolutely rapt. When I finally sat down to watch the movie, even more so. Maybe it's just more of the bad boy syndrome, that Byronic hero. It will get you everytime.