I admit I am a snob

I had a wonderful day. For the first time in a long time. Maybe it is the unnatural (for October) 70 degree weather, maybe my pills have finally decided to work, but I woke today without a headache and did not feel sick after eating toast and taking my pill. I took a walk, listening to Lily Allen, and then took the bus to town, to return and pick up books at the library. Had lunch by myself at my favourite eatery -- that sells wraps, smoothies, and soups (delish), flipping through the new Craig Ferguson auto-biography while I ate, and beginning the biography on Daphne Du Maurier that, since reading Justine Picardie's fictional biography of Daphne -- not-so ingeniously titled "Daphne" -- I have been eagerly wanting to begin.

A library patron -- Theresa -- came into the eatery just as I finished -- lucky for me -- and after having a short chat, that dealt with what I was reading and "Honey, do you know anyone who writes like her [Daphne] today?" to which I replied, "No. Writers today just don't write like they did back then" -- I left to have tea in the Starbucks in the Omni William Penn Hotel, which I have just decided shall be my new cafe. It is so fancy, with the large chandelier, and the ornate gold stucco, and warm coloured and therefore inviting large carpets. I like things that are fancy. I like beautiful places where I can sit and read and look at people dressed in fancy clothes, the women with their uniquely adorned high heels (leopard skin and bright coloured ones) and men with their blackberries, and their facial expressions of importance. While I sit in a large, brown, comfy chair, dressed in tattered old jeans, a child's shirt with Tinkerbell on it, and a hoodie over that. Despite my pretensions of modesty, I am a snob.

And enjoy being one very much.