Jane Austen was a tragic figure in literary history. I feel as though many of the truly great writers were- they had to be in order to write as powerfully as they did.

I also feel this is an apt reflection of how I, or any other powerful woman, could end up. And you know what? It sucks. Really. Fucking. Blows.

God, I get so mad just thinking about it! I can't stop crying, which is making me even MORE furious! And you know what? I'm flawed. Deeply, tragically flawed. And she WASN'T! God, that puts me at even more of a disadvantage.

Wow. Jane Austen just... rocked my world. Quite literally. It seems to be happening a lot lately. Does that say something about my state of mind? Am I particularly fragile right now? Do I recognize that even as I confront my fears, I'm just stepping into another box? Or.. is it a reflection of the media I happen to be pursuing?

I want sleep. Lots and lots of sleep. No snow. Just sleep.