Vampires - Real and Imaginary

...or 2 rants about random and unrelated things.

So for the past few weeks, I've been jogging around my neighborhood after I get home from work a few times a week. (Self-high-five!) I have not been known for my dedication to working out, and I am frequently rather vocal about how much I hate running (separate rant). But sitting at a desk all day is pretty boring after being active (either walking or biking) for 10 to 12 hours everyday. The most exercise I get is walking to my car. So I decided this was a good way to spend my excess energy, and I usually go running around dusk. This is a lead up to my actual rant.

Apparently every mosquito in the Texas area has realized that I am fresh and relatively untouched meat. The mosquitoes in Europe aren't so bad. In fact, I never remember getting bitten by anything besides the occasional spider or angry gypsy.

So now I have bruises all over my legs from scratching. I'm going to have to start bringing a baseball bat with me to defend my poor legs from the pterodactyl sized mosquitoes that are trying to eat me alive.

Rant #2

I'm always kinda ashamed of myself when I get sucked into a mindless book series. I know I can be a bit of a literary snob, but... let's take Twilight. Ok... ignoring the fact that after the first book, the rest of them just go downhill plot-wise - why do I feel so strongly about the characters? Why do I want to sit down and have a serious counselling session with Edward about his self-esteem issues? And why do I want Bella to quit being so melodramatic? I'm so wrapped up in their lives!!! Obviously this is the point of best-selling fiction. We get wrapped up in it and forget about annoying little plot glitches.

I started reading the Sookie Stackhouse vampire series on a friend's recommendation (the show True Blood is based off it). I've been trying to read The Road (kinda dark) and had just finished Lolita (really twisted) - so I just wanted something light. And once again I've been sucked into the world of mildly amusing, mediocre literature. Its like Grey's Anatomy... you know exactly what's going to happen, you're kinda ashamed of yourself that you watch it every week, but you can't stop.

The best part is that I looked at a picture of the author... oh this poor woman. Charlaine Harris is an unremarkable, uninteresting looking middle-aged woman who is obviously writing about the exciting life of a buxom blonde that she wishes she had... because I highly doubt that at any point in time she looked anything like the girl that is her heroine. I hope she enjoys her highly successful literary career because her love life is probably as stagnant as ever.