Lara is a vocal reader. When she reads, she laughs hard. She makes knowing mmm hhhs. She lets you know she is reading. When the book is a normal one with passable English grammar, this kind of trait can be a great, entertaining, influx of positive energy in an otherwise normal day. When the book is bad, though, sh*t hits the fan.
Currently, she sits 6 inches from me, moaning in horror, burying her head in the pillow, gritting her teeth - we can really just say "kicking and screaming" - as she finishes the last 10 pages of the famously plagiarized 18 year old Harvard phenom's How Opal Meht (sic) Got Kiss (sic) Got Wild and Got a Life. I told her it was better than expected. I guess we had different expectations.
Her summary: "There's no excuse. We weren't 18 that long ago."
I have to go, though, because she keeps turning over with the thermometer in her mouth wanting to discuss finer points of the text. She's a chatty one when she's sick, that Lara.
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