Neil Gaiman is a god. A genius, an icon, a muse.

(Possibly a drug. They should put warning labels on his books--Caution: Advised dosage may be too high for those with predisposition to mania, obsession, fangirlish tendencies, and overactive imagination.)

He is to me what the Star of Bethlehem was to the Magi--a beacon, an inspiration, a promise, a guide.

(Also I am determined to marry him someday. It's alright that he's already married--I've got time. We can work around that.)

I don't believe I've ever derived so much enjoyment from the simple act of sitting down with a book for a few uninterrupted hours. The man is, I swear, like crack. I can't get enough. I'm addicted. I'm hooked. No substitutions, exchanges, or refunds.

(I'm beginning to think I have a serious problem.)

My boyfriend is faintly disgruntled. My friends are all faintly amused. My stepmother is more than faintly amused, and the rest of my family is distantly tolerant of my dementia. I have a feeling it's only going to get worse as time goes on, but with such a strong support network, I'm sure I can pull through it.

(...)