It's come to my attention that it's a new year and that I may need a hobby. (Other than world domination, of course, which is much more a full-time, kick-ass job than a dalliance.)
Shit. A hobby? Boring people have hobbies to make themselves seem less, well, boring. People who have no friends have hobbies, ergo, to make friends with other friendless people. Sex-starved people have hobbies to meet other sex misters/mistresses and engage in totally unsexy activities. Why the hell do I need a hobby? And how am I going to save "the hobby" from its seriously unflattering reputation?
When I think of "the hobby," I recall my not-so-distant youth and a very awesome pink sleeping bag that depicted one Holly Hobbie. After two seconds of research, I've learned that Holly Hobbie was a real live person who named a fictional character after herself. Ego-tastic!
Anyway, Holly Hobbie -- the fake one -- was in a bunch of books with Toot and Puddle, her best friends. This is all very disturbing to me. It's undetermined whether Toot or Puddle were real live persons too. I suspect my creators forced this Hobbie character and her unsavory associates on me in an effort to make me appear "a real girl" instead of the budding genius I most definitely was.
I reject Holly Hobbie now and retroactively apply this rejection to my youth as well.
I don't need you, hobby. You are rude. I'm relieved that this 10 seconds of self-discovery has liberated me from the pedestrian notion that I need or want a hobby.
Happy New Year!
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