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Do I go to Hell if, as the sweet old lady I'm talking to starts to ramble, I begin mentally inserting 'so then I tied an onion to my belt...' into what she's saying and attempting not to smirk visibly?

I sure hope not.

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The up-side of being alone in an old person's house: found a 19th century book of Keats' poems. Stood in living room doing this are srs performance reading of book one of Hyperion (thanks, Dan Simmons for helping me pretend to be cultured), with a different voice for each character. I still barely (at best) get poetry, but by reading it out I managed to at least follow what was happening. Need to read up on that mythology.

Anyway, now I feel all smartistic and stuff. Woo.

Also, keats has a very bitter short sonnet where he waxes snarky about church and takes comfort in the fact that organized religion is obviously dying. Seems an odd observation to be coming from the 1800s from what I'd presumed about it. Maybe everyone has always thought it was like that. There's a great 'kids these days are worse than ever before' quote out there by Plato, which makes more recent, similar sentiments, including my own when such sneak in, easier to take with a grain of salt. Perhaps somethung similar here.

In closing: typing all this on my Treo. Ow.