If you have to ask, you're probably in the wrong place. And if you like unicorns and rainbows and skipping through dewy meadows, I'd advise you to leave, before you get traumatized too much. For the brave few that remain, every now and then Mojo's Craptacular is that thin ray of sunshine in your otherwise drab and pathetic life.
I suppose I should just come right out and say it: I'm not a HUUUUUGE Harry Potter fan. I don't HATE it, and people who like it--or LUUUUUV it--are just aces in my book, or at least have earned no demerits. And speaking of books, yes, I've read them all, and I've seen all the movies. Like many fantasy titles, it's just Not Really My Thing. If it turns out it *IS* your thing, that's cool. I'm not one of THOSE jerks. Fanboy or fangirl away, friend. I have no beef with you over that, nor with HP himself.
I found the books initially charming, and then increasingly depressing as the saga unfolded. Enough to kinda turn me off of any rabid fandom. Plus I was never in the core demographic in the first place, so there's that. The depressive aspects of the books were reflected, I felt, in the movies. By the time HP4 or 5 came out, I was pretty much done with it. But then that ol' sunk cost fallacy popped its sunken head up--the sort of illogical reasoning that figures hell, I've already spent THIS MANY HOURS of my life watching this series, so I might as well finish watching ALL of them.
So one reason why Mojo never gets lonely even if no one will be her friend is because she already has several enlightening and engaging conversations going on among her own several warring personalities hidden therein. For example:
(DOE-EYED NAIVE MOJO happens to catch something moving out of the corner of her eye as she passes a window.)
So last Saturday evening, the Favorite Husband and I were lounging around on the couch, watching an old movie (Ingrid Bergman in Joan of Arc; I maintain The Passion of Joan of Arc made some thirty years earlier is much better), when my attention was drawn to the good-sized picture window to the right of the television. It was still light out, a little before actual twilight, and, near as I could tell, someone was driving a BUS across our yard, about ten feet from the window.
(THE SCENE: Second grade, so circa 1970-71. This is the height of what they now call second-wave feminism--first wave being general sufferage around the turn of the century--when women really began to make inroads in employment opportunities and the full social-political spectrum. Along with this came the well-intentioned need to TEACH OUR YOUNG GIRLS about reaching for their dreams and not to let the evil patriarchy dog ya down too much.)
(Mojo's second grade teacher, Mrs. Allen, is asking the children in class one by one what they would like to be when they grew up.)
Today is Valentine's Day, which I do not particularly celebrate. Never much cared for it. Luckily the person I have been with for the past thirty years agrees with me here, so all is well in Mojoland.
Now as a grouchy older adult person Valentine's Day reminds me of two things. The first is an early, "classic" episode of the Simpsons called I Love Lisa, about a terrible crush Ralph Wiggum—irretrievably stupid loser that he is—had on Lisa. The whole thing is rather sad as Lisa cannot reciprocate, and has at least two memorable moments: the Valentine's Day "I choo-choo-choose you" card, and Ralph's delightfully painful attempts at flirting, which culminates in a come-on line I have frequently used to my great amusement and delight ever since: "So.... do you like... .stuff?"