Destination: Mississippi

I’m back, readers!

The past few weeks were pretty hectic, but I can officially say my semester is over. Not only that, but I got an A in Statistics which is like a Christmas miracle except better. Mostly because it means I don’t have to retake the class.


Now that I’m back we’re hitting the ground running by diving into Mississippi. Instead of focusing on the state, I decided to read a story that’s set there. Specifically a place called Jefferson, Mississippi where William Faulkner set most, if not all of his narratives. Of course, Jefferson isn’t a real town, but it’s modeled after Oxford where Faulkner spent most of his life.

I don’t know what I was expecting when I read A Rose for Emily, but what I read wasn’t it. Or it was right up until the necrophilia… I promise to deviate from the corpse loving for the next book. Between Child of God and this you’d think I have a thing for stiffs. And I do, just not this kind. *ba dum tss* You know you missed my terrible jokes, don’t lie.

So, Miss Emily is as shocking in death as she was haughty in life. She’s an institution, whether she’s a mental institution or not isn’t confirmed until she dies and they find her dead husband on a bed upstairs. And a long gray hair on the pillow next to his. What?

And I bet the people of Jefferson just ate that up. High class lady with a superiority complex dies, only for people to discover she was murderer and a necrophiliac. It’s the old version of going through people’s browser history when they die. You go through their house, looking for valuables and secrets. This is why I’ve made it very clear that I want to be cremated and buried with seeds, but also that my browser history should be deleted immediately and never spoken of again. #RespectTheDead

It’s something similar to reading someone’s diary. Which we do all the time when famous people die and someone decides to publish their journals, their notes or letters. I can’t imagine that they would be thrilled knowing everyone is reading their deepest thoughts. Although, there’s that theory that says if people write something it’s because on some level they want it to be read.

Did Emily want someone to find her husband’s dead body? Of course, it was around because she slept with it, but she could’ve left instructions with her man servant to bury it once she died. Maybe she wanted these people who judged her to know she had love, twisted as it may have been. Maybe I’m taking this entire thing out of context. I probably am.

Don’t love people to death with arsenic, is what I’m going to end with. Love them in life with passion and acceptance. And, for the love of god, clear your browser history you pervs.

Until next time, readers.

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