Swear to God, I was NOT going to get wrapped up in all this bullshit. I wasn’t. I fully intended to wait, bide my time, not go with the insanely stupid flow and just exercise a little patience.

Yeah.

That didn’t last long.

I love Harry Potter.

There. I said it.

That being said, however, I have never ever been the type to be waiting in line at 12am at a Barnes & Noble, dressed like Hagrid or anyone named Hufflepuff, discussing the finer points of Norwegian Ridgeback dragons. (Think I’m making that shit up? Check my sources.) I’ve been more than content to wait out the mad dash and just pick up the book at my leisure later, but quite frankly…I can’t wait.

I HAVE to have it!

I’ve become a full-blown Potterphile. I read the books. I watch the movies. I read up on it for hours on Wikipedia. Hell, I even listen to a HP podcast on iTunes! And I’m somewhat embarrassed. I’m a grown-ass man, dawg. I shouldn’t be this twisted over a kid’s book, right? I shouldn’t be wondering if Snape is good or evil, should I? I need not be wringing my hands, waiting to see who lives and who dies, needn’t I? (And who knew “needn’t” is a real word? You learn something new every day, people. I’m here to edutain you.)

The problem is, even though I really don’t wanna get all caught up in the hoopla, I know it’ll be virtually impossible to avoid hearing news about what happens in the book. It’ll be harder than getting a correct calculus answer out of Lindsay Lohan after midnight on her birthday. And I do NOT want the ending (or the beginning, or the middle, or the damn dust jacket) given to me like a released ransom victim, all dirty and unkempt. I want to get the information in its natural form, by reading it my damn self. I will beat the ass of anyone who gives this shit away before I’ve gotten to the end.  Worse than Jon Lovitz beat Andy Dick’s ass in that comedy club.

So, come Saturday morning, I’ll be standing outside the Best Buy in Plano, before opening, waiting in line with what I’m sure will be a fucked-up menagerie of people in costume, holding battered copies of Half-Blood Prince and trying to speak Mermish to each other while their moms wait in their ’94 Blazers in the parking lot. I’ll be that guy, looking pissed and out-of-place, iPod crammed deep into my earballs, trying to ascertain which dumbass non-social-life having mofo will be the first to piss me off that day. I’ll be there, waiting for my chance to join the herd, something I’ve tried to avoid for years now.

I’ll be there.

And I’ll beat your ass if you try to cut in line. Try me.

Peace.

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