Lost in Austen

I hardly know how to begin it's been so long since I've written. My excuse is that I've nothing to say, but I have confidence that troubles I don't even know I'm having will percolate through my fingertips as I mindlessly tap.
I should be reading.
GAH it's summer, and I should be reading.
Who am I trying to fool? I'd be reading anyway. I'll always be reading. Some are out experiencing the world, changing it, saving it. I'm reading about it. Lying in bed with my oscillating tower fan placed ever so correctly, blowing just enough to cause my hairs to dance with one another but not enough to turn my pages. Surely there's nothing shameful in reading; it's just that I do it so much. Reading, however important it is, cannot be the be all and end all of intelligence. If one incarcerates themselves in a book eternally, what will he or she experience? A pillow of dark circles to support the tired eyes and a view of the world that is a mixture of fact and fiction crafted and corroborated between the hand of the writer and the fancy of the reader.
Anyway, enough of that.
As we've already established that I am reading, the question as to what I am reading inevitably must arise. Jane Austen. Over and over until I'm sick. All seven of her novels have to be wrenched into my brain before July 9th, which is when I leave for England. Let me just say once and for all that I am not an Austen lover as some of my friends. I respect her and unashamedly enjoy a novel every now and then, but let's be honest. She's nothing more than a glorified Nicholas Sparks. She seems classic because her nomenclature is outdated and her lexicon is from a different century, but her plots (girl is lonely/poor, girl meets rich man, rich man sweeps her off her feet, happily ever after) end in love and fortune: the ultimate happy ending. The only difference between Jane Austen and Nicholas Sparks is that sometimes, Nick will blindside us with an unhappy ending just to see if we're paying attention.Reading one is pleasure; reading seven consecutively is torture. My opinion of Jane Austen is in danger of being harmed forever due to overindulgence.
Conclusion:
I'm going to Louisville tomorrow for lunch and play with Selena's family and dinner and a movie with Bobby. I've been frustrated lately about some things, some people, some ambiguities that must remain so. I hope this day trip will be the uplift I need.