So I guess it’s just time for me to give up, move to some dustbowl town, and get a job as a Wal*Mart greeter. As I was complaining earlier, I’ve already been relegated to third-class citizenship by virtue of being female and petite. Now, according to Gawker, I’m a lamely employed social retard in the bargain. They have generated a taxonomy of editors, which, like all good pieces of snark, does contain a kernel of truth. I guess I would fall under the “benignly batty” category:

Just a total crazy
There are variations on this theme, from the malignantly Regan-ish to the benignly batty. But there are a WHOLE lot of them. People who are traumatized as children often look to books in order to escape from their painful realities, and then they become big readers, who in turn become editors.

I wasn’t exactly traumatized as a child, but my family, to put it gently, is a little eccentric. They thought nothing of their 8-year-old locking herself away for hours at a time with mildewy Victorian novels. My (Catholic) elementary school had a belfry, for god’s sake; when I moved over to public education, I was considered odd, to say the least. As an aside, my early overconsumption of the Brontë sisters probably also instilled in me the tendency to choose wet, cold, desolate places for vacations (northern Scotland, Nova Scotia, Iceland, etc.).