It's not that I'm obsessive. It's just--
Oh, who the hell do I think I'm kidding. I'm obsessive. And more than that, I'm a geek. Oh, don't get me wrong--I fly under the radar, for the most part. And given the company I keep, I'd say I fall on the mild end of the geek scale. But I can identify the episode of Star Trek by watching about three minutes, I know why the meaning of life is 42*, and I've long since stopped arguing over whether or not I really need to wear medieval garb to the various events that O. takes me to.
And I would totally walk through an alien device that generates a stable wormhole to a city in another galaxy, and I would live in that city regardless of the fact that said galaxy is overrun with life-sucking space vampires and evil killer robots.
O. has said on more than one occasion that he feels like he was born in the wrong time, like he really would have fit better in centuries past. I feel the same way, but I feel like I should have been born in the future. The idea of aliens fascinates me. The idea of traveling in space fascinates me. The concept of setting up a colony on another planet fascinates me. I think this is one reason that I'm such a sucker for science fiction--I feel like there's so much potential out there, and it kills me that we don't know more about it.
I've been weeding the astronomy section of the library where I'm doing my practicum, and there are a ton of outdated books. Many of them were written in the 60s and 70s and had these awesome predictions for where we'd be by now--setting up colonies on the moon, space tourism within reach of the average person--but I doubt any of this will happen in my lifetime. I want my flying car, damnit.
All of this is a very convoluted way of saying, if you're trying to get ahold of me this week and cannot, blame the fact that my Stargate: Atlantis Season 4 DVDs arrived recently, and I'm currently engrossed in a marathon. What can I say--I'm obsessive.
*Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams. Don't forget your towel.