The things I’ve read

I’ve always been a reader. Books, words, writing have all been a part of my DNA for as long as I’ve been aware.

Third grade, I remember I pilfered some book my sister (at that point a freshman in high school) was reading. It was about anorexia and I remember I told my Sunday School class about it at prayer request time.

There was also some book called Don’t Hurt Laurie that I read and Laurie had to put up with some shit. She had an abusive mother and a clueless stepdad.

RL Stine scared the pissĀ out of me in sixth grade. I never got any of those books at the bookslibrary or anything like that – I’m unsure why. Probably I was too scared. The one or two that I did read I think came from friends or something similar. I know my mom never would have allowed me to buy them.

There always seemed to be so much to read when I was younger. So much that I would love and get lost in. Like the TV Kid, I think it was – he gets bitten by a rattlesnake under a house and makes a tourniquet. There were other things that happened in that book but I have no clue what they are.

Now? Not so much.

I mean sure, there are classics that I haven’t read and they will perpetually be on some mental list that I gradually check off.

But there is a fundamental thrill of losing myself in a story that I have apparently lost. Once I could devour a story, live in the universe and befriend every character numerous times.

I don’t have that anymore.

Any suggestions? I am currently plowing through the Song of Ice and Fire series as it is now – just so that I can say I did it.

Notes on a Socially Awkward Existence

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I’ve never been what anyone would refer to as a social butterfly. There is a slim section of the population I can stomach being around for any length of time, and the rest of the world of people who breathe are simply not my wavelength.

I’m sure there are people I would like, if I put forth the effort. I’m sure I judge interaction too quickly and give up too easily.

But people – creating a rapport, being approachable and interested, making conversation and thinking of things to say…

Just typing about it makes me tired and anxious.

I grew up among people, though. This should go against everything my pew-studded history embedded within me. Right? I mean, there were times, children. Times when I loved being among people and I was loud and jolly and obnoxious. There are still those times, yet I couldn’t name the last one. These days I’d much prefer staying home binge watching Breaking Bad (again) or reading comics with the lights off.

Is that so wrong? Am I so different? If you prick me, do I not bleed?

I can’t be the only one.

For example, the text message.

People, if you text me and I don’t respond it means I have nothing to say. Or that I don’t have time to respond. Or that I don’t feel like settling into a ten minute back and forth of “no way, why?” “Where are you now?” “I think those shoes would match.”

AND ALL THE OTHER BULLSHIT.

I love people. People fascinate me. I love text messaging. It jives splendidly with my random stream of consciousness existence. I do NOT love feeling obligated to check in or small talk when I really don’t have reason to. Chances are if I haven’t responded quickly enough to your text and subsequently received a “?” text from you – unless you are my husband or mom or otherwise important family, then well… I may not ever text you again.

It’s just a fact.