I'm one of the bazillion people who's already paid for the next in JK Rowling's series of uber-sellers about underage wizards. It's not child pornography, but the lengths to which Potterheads will go in predicting the contents of book number six seem to border on the obscene if you ask me.
Today's headlines about a handful of books being sold prematurely from a grocery store in Coquitlam bothered me. Not because this minor event garnered front page press around the globe when those behind the bombings in London haven't been unmasked just yet. Nope. I was upset because I'm jealous of those 14 lucky S.O.B.s who got grubby paws on The Half-Blood Prince.
As you can see from my reading list on the right of this page, a good deal of my spare time of late has been spent revisiting young Mr Potter and his magical training. I've already paid for and expect to pick up Friday night after taking the wife to a late movie -- and I'm steaming because I didn't happen to win some consumer lottery to learn the next fictional exploits of The Boy Who Lived a full three days earlier than the rest of the world.
This, despite the fact that I have approximately 100 books on my shelf that have never been so much as inspected, let alone cracked or, gods forbid, perused. This, despite the dozen or so borrowed volumes that dot my apartment, promises of return burning into my conscience like guilt-sewn scarlet letters upon my soul.
This, despite the fact that I'm barely halfway done several freelance assignments, including a major design job that I was hoping to complete weeks ago.
Wracked with bouts of semi-bridled anticipation, I'm almost embarrassed at how closely I'm counting the hours until Friday midnight.
Between Harry Potter VI and visions of Johnny Depp as Willy Wonka, I'm barely sleeping these days. Somebody give me a good dose of reality, please? Aren't there famines, terrorists and scary diseases out there to worry about?
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