“Obsession” is just such a great theme for the month, isn’t it? The only thing about it that makes me sad is that I am not truly obsessed with anything! I don’t have a shrine, or a celebrity I worship, or a TV show I go out of my way to watch every day. At least that’s what I thought—until this week, when I was shown that I am incontrovertibly obsessed with one very important thing.
My family is in Florida right now, and the other day we went to Universal Studios. You might be aware that there is a Harry Potter part that looks just like Hogsmeade. (Warning: more HP references ahead!) I went into the fake Honeydukes and it was glorious! I bought some Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans and a Chocolate Frog. My card was Godric Gryffindor. The Zonko’s replica sort of sucked because almost all the tricks were dumb Muggle things, but it’s pretty cool that they even tried to re-create it. I also bought a wand at Ollivanders! Seventeen inches, ivy, unicorn hair.
After that experience, I had to come to terms with my Harry Potter obsession. I wish I had something unique to be obsessed with, but nope, I’m a total cliché. I’ve read the books so many times that I can recite from memory many of the passages from the first two, especially. I have seen all the movies over and over and I cry every time someone dies (usually a few times per movie). I’m even obsessed with all the little parodies, like Potter Puppet Pals and A Very Potter Musical.
I think that for a while my HP obsession was kind of unhealthy. I tried very hard to believe the world in the books was real. I sobbed on my 11th birthday when I didn’t get an acceptance letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Remember 11/11/11? Everyone was getting so excited about wishing on that supposedly magical day. And so was I, because I was hoping I would be a witch by the end of the night. Insane? A little bit. But it was hoping, not really believing, so that’s OK, right?
But wait. It gets crazier. I failed to notice when it was 11:11 PM, the wishing/witching hour, so I started to cry. Of course. Because now I would never get my chance to do magic (I was 14). And then I had the brilliant idea of letting a tear drip onto page 77 of the seventh book for good luck, and then wished and wished.
Eventually (recently) I stopped myself from considering that the wizard world might be real and decided to limit my Harry Potter tears to the sad parts of the books/movies. But I’m still obsessed, of course—I just no longer entertain the thought that the stories might be true.
Anyway, what I meant to say before I digressed was that I don’t have an obsession, which made me sad, but then I remembered that I do have one, so yeah. The end. ♦