As of this moment, I have three--count 'em--three reasons to be ecstatic.

1. I'm heading down to San Diego this weekend to visit Chloe. We'll have maybe three days together, which is more than enough to kiss her until we're both breathless. At the same time, it's nowhere near enough--nothing less than the rest of our lives will ever be enough--but it'll keep us alive until Thanksgiving. I'M COMING, BABY!

2. Transformers is coming out on DVD in three days, meaning I will finally be able to own what is, in my estimation, one of the finest movies ever made. Understand: there are certain subject, certain films, that it is impossible for me to be objective about. Transformers is one of them, alongside Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and...

3. THE GOLDEN COMPASS. Let me repeat that: THE GOLDEN FUCKING COMPASS, the finest work of fantasy literature to be written since the days of Tolkien, has finally been made into a film, and from all indications it is going to rock so hard that it'll be a wonder if my smile doesn't split my head in half. Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy has surpassed even Terry Pratchett's Discworld in the pantheon of my imagination, and I have no doubt that this film will do the books justice in a way that has never before been equaled.

If you have not read His Dark Materials yet, there is something seriously fucking wrong with you. Go read them, now, before the movie comes out, so you'll understand the true, marvelous extent of the story's beauty.

Understand: His Dark Materials brought me to tears. Me. I just finished reading the story last week on the ride home from class, and I remember sitting there on the crowded bus with tears in my eyes and rolling down my face, tears of bittersweet joy, and I just felt this indescribable longing to be a part of the world that Pullman created. No book--nothing by Tolkien or Pratchett, Goodkind or Lackey, Orson Scott Card or Robert Heinlein or Dan Simmons--no book has ever made me feel like this before.

Read The Golden Compass. I guarantee within five pages you'll be aching for a daemon of your own.