Oh, Willoughby

I have been listening to Sense and Sensibility... I couldn't decide what I wanted to do more, read or knit, so I decided to do both.

I am just over halfway through and while I want so much to be as sensible as Elinor, I fear that I am resigned to be silly Marianne. Following my heart down a path that doesn't exist with very little clarity or encouragement from the object of my affection.

Damn you, Willoughby.

And of course, if the supposition is true, we are all better off without him... however little comfort that may be right now. Marianne was not at all comforted by the discovery of his failings. It just served to make her feel more ridiculous for loving him in the first place.

Yup. Fucking Willoughby.

I'm sure that she will find her way out of this melancholy. I'm sure she will find an appropriate match. Because really, Marianne? Know what the difference is between life with Willoughby and without him? Not a fucking thing... except that without him you can stop pacing in front of the window looking for his carriage and you can stop racing to meet the afternoon post and you can leave the house without worrying that you'll miss his call.

But that doesn't help much either. Because I know that Marianne and I are both hoping against hope that something will happen in the end to redeem him... that her love will not have been in vain and he will come to her all sweet and earnest.

She's just a child, so her hope makes some sense, but I know better.