Originally published for a nineteenth-century British literature course. Ignore the madness.

In my short, but incredibly prosperous and famous existence, I have read Brontë’s Wuthering Heights many times—the last time I did so was about six months ago—and yes, that means I haven’t re-read it for the course. Whatever. Did you guys see the Academy Awards? I swear, Elizabeth Banks, Tina Fey and Barbra Streisand were the only ones who did know how to present something. You would think being an actor/actress would make you a great presenter—all you do is read of a teleprompter and/or memorise a—badly written (again)—script—but alas. So, anyway, because I’m better at memorising things than Miley Cyrus—what the hell was she doing at the Academy Awards, for the second time, anyway? Stupid ABC pushing those Disney princesses—there was no point in me re-reading the novel.

… Now, where was I? Oh, right, the last time was about six months ago, and every single time I read it I have loved it. There’s something about the witchcraft brew of violence, love, family and nature that livens a read.

Up till the last time, I gave every character the same attention. But six months ago, I gave Linton (Isabella’s boy) some special attention, I noticed. Though Heathcliff is, obviously, the bad guy in the story—he makes it impossible to like him, really—Linton, that weak kid who gets kicked around by Heathcliff, seemed to me even worse—or, at least, almost on the same level. He manipulates to an even farther degree—yes, farther. I like saying it more than further, because it sounds awfully British—and Brits are hot—you know who’s also hot? Tom Ford. Rawr. I have always loved him—he keeps ignoring my phone calls and he never writes back, but one day he’ll answer (insert evil laugh here)—but when he was interviewed by the German host of the ProSieben Academy Awards pre-pre-show: hotness to the maximum—than his father does. At least Heathcliff has his tormented youth and his wicked love for Catherine Earnshaw to use as an excuse, but Linton’s just plain ol’ mean. Oh, sure, he is scared of his father, and is mistreated in the Wuthering mansion, but that doesn’t explain every single awful thing he does to poor Catherine Linton Heathcliff Earnshaw. (That’s a pretty Dynasty‘esque name for you.)

Wait. I had meant to talk about something completely different when I started writing here. What was it …

Oh, right. Joseph, the most annoying character in the novel, is, in my opinion, a complete allegory for the ridiculous nature of both the church, religion, and theists/believers. Such a religious man, but when he opens his mouth. Such a religious man, but when injustice happens in front of his eyes. Such a religious man, but when his faith is questioned and tickled. …

Dammit. This is what happens when you wonder off to the Academy Awards in your opening paragraph. You lose focus, and the original brilliance of the interpretation you were going to write about. You can fill in the blanks, can’t you? Sure you can. You can do everything! Look at that pretty face—look at those pink cheeks—so cute! Who’s a good girl? Who’s a good girl? Yes, you are! Now, go fill in those blanks, and don’t make me tell you twice.