Heathcliff, I am so frustrated.

(This was actually written about a month ago. I am just now finding the impulse to post it.)

I am so frustrated right now. I can’t, for the life of me, conjure a worthy image or face for Heathcliff – one of my favorite literary anti-heroes (a mis-hero, perhaps?) encountered thus far. Have I seen too many movies? Faces of famous actors, each as unlikely or too bright, or overly modern, as the last, flit through my mind every time Heathcliff speaks. When was the last time I actually based a literary character’s look on words alone? Have I always used famous actors and actresses? This vexes me so.

It doesn’t help any at all that my roommates have some dread-locked hippie stoner friend over right now, who won’t shut the fuck up about edibles and weed butter, and has – in the hour he’s been here – successfully fumigated my house with the stench of marijuana. Added to this is the roommates' (now a few steps, in the wrong direction, away from sobriety) feeling absolutely compelled to show him, at great volume, the three songs they have been recording/mixing/mastering/rehearsing/listening to over and over and over again for the three years that I’ve known them. He doesn’t even like the songs, but they keep going on about what the process has been like leading up to this: the most perfect of rock and roll records!

Goddamn you, Heathcliff! I just want to see your face. Should I just stop reading Wuthering Heights until my literary palette is sufficiently cleansed? I could scream. And all I hear from the living room is reggae and, “I’m so stoned. Let’s roll another spliff! This weed is great.” And worthless, excited chattering, chattering, chattering about what kind of weed so-and-so likes, and how so-and-so prefers to smoke it, and how many times so-and-so got this stoned with that one person. Now the fucking hippie is rapping to the reggae on the radio. Why are they all so effortlessly predictable and so absolutely ridiculous? I’m about to throw things, Heathcliff.