Forever

That's how long the machinery directly in front of my house has been blasting, drilling and doing other very very loud things. There's a massive overhaul of our town's sewage system going on (and on, and on, and on....), due, I'm told, to problems with the system getting overloaded after heavy rains which resulted in sewage being dumped directly into the harbor.
The blasting that shakes the house and knocks things off the shelves is bad, but it's nothing compared to the incessant roar of machines that wears you down until you are unable to think or function. And I'm sure I don't need to tell you about effects of the nails-on-a-blackboard SQUEAL of a gargantuan drill boring through ledge about five feet from one's home.
Had I known the hell the overhaul would entail, I would have campaigned to vote it down with the slogan "Fish poop in the water, why can't we?"

Now, "Forever" by Judy Blume is a different thing entirely. Sadly, the love of Katherine and Michael didn't last as long as the project in front of my home will, but I kept it alive by reading and rereading it many times in my formative years.
It was the first novel I ever read that really dealt with sex, and I found it fascinating and worthy of much study (much to the dismay of the babysitter who had to answer the many questions my friends and I barraged her with on the subject - and do you think the mention of a babysitter implies that we were a bit too young for this tome?). This book was practically required literature for my generation, and I don't think any who read it can hear the name "Ralph" without a little snort of laughter and a prurient thought or two.
I ran across my copy of it a couple days ago while sorting through some books I had packed away. You'd think a book with a title like "Forever" would hold up better to a couple (hundred) readings.