The Time Machine by H. G. Wells is absolutely fantastic. And this is coming from a person whose enjoyment in the world of science fiction used to come solely from Jules Verne.

Sexy, sexy Jules Verne.

After a rather innocuous beginning—in the sense that I thought it would end up to be similar in style and tone as Verne, since Wells apparently idolized the dude (who wouldn’t?)—it took a very different turn than I was expecting and I actually got a bit of an adrenaline rush reading through the 3^rd quarter of it. Read it.

And now I’m reading Lolita, which is amazingly well-written but is so similar to some sort of twisted pedophilic tell-all that it’s actually kind of creeping me out. And the 30-minutes bus ride to campus (WITHOUT A TRANSFER, SCREW YOU #7) = excellent reading time, now that I don’t get motion sick anymore.

Today’s song: The Mummers vs. Passion Pit, a mash-up by Stayloose