Being in the middle of a good book is like having a secret. I occasionally look up from it, notice the people around me, and realize that they’re not happily lost in this other world the way that I am.
Especially if the book isn’t a popular one. I’m sure that I’d feel this way somewhat if I were enjoying the latest Harry Potter (which, incidentally, may or may not have been leaked). But it’s especially strong when I’m reading one that practically no one I know has ever read.
It’s similar to having woken up before sunrise, gazing at the empty streets, then watching as they slowly fill with people. Those people don’t know something that you know.
I sure as hell don’t plan to get up before sunrise (and STAY up), but I’m reading a really good book. It’s fun, and little lonely, to be the only one.
I get that same feeling from reading a book or watching a movie that nobody I know would consider worth watching or reading. The loneliness increases in parallel with my enjoyment.
“Ah, that was great, but nobody would believe me. I’m so misunderstood.”
*wallowing in the glory of idiosyncratic individuality*
Sex is like that, too (especially when one is single). You’re not supposed to run around saying you had it, but you’d like to. And if the girl is pretty, you want to say, “I had sex with HER!”
“And if the girl is pretty”
I just love this part.
Clearly, men do not assume that you must’ve thought a girl pretty in order to have sex with her.
And yet, we do assume that it’s important that she be pretty before we’d want to brag to our friends about it.
Our lower impulses are shameful things, aren’t they?
Heheh, I’m deep enough to be willing to sleep with physically unattractive women, and shallow enough to not want to brag when I did.
Of course, this is all moot now, when I’m married to a beautiful woman. Ahem!