"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

I am newly obsessed with "Gone With the Wind." I'd never read the book before, so when I remembered I had a copy on the bookshelf I dove in. It took a few days because it's a damn long book. It would have taken longer if I hadn't skipped over the pages upon pages of description of landscape and dresses and war stats. I don't need to read an entire paragraph on the way the sun slants through the magnolia trees. It's the South. We love the South. I get it.

Scarlett O'Hara is a bitch, but you know what... I love her. And I love Rhett Butler, to the point of giving him a perch on a literary pedestal equal to that of Mr. Darcy. And it's going to drive me stark raving mad if I allow myself to continue wondering whether or not those two end up together. They have to. Right?? I mean, who else could either of them possibly be with? They just have to end up together. He has to give a damn. He just needs a little time and then they'll be ok. (I'm trying really hard not to curse Margaret Mitchell for not writing a sequel herself.)

Another confession: I haven't actually seen the movie in its entirety. Can you believe that? A movie buff like me?? I swear I thought I'd seen it, but I think I've just seen clips. A coworker let me borrow her copy as soon as I mentioned it, but I have yet to bring myself to watch it. I'm afraid I'll never recover.

I know I'm like 75 years late on this (only 30, if you just count the time I've been alive) but my God! I am obsessed. I want Rhett Butler. I love Scarlett despite her hatefulness. And I needed to get all that out in hopes that I'll be able to sleep tonight without thinking of Tara or Georgia or dashing men with mustaches - a look, I've decided, that Clark Gable and Clark Gable alone can pull off without looking ridiculous.