Reading through my massive book stack is a task that will not be completed in time, especially since I’ve renewed my library card. I’m such a nerd, yeah I know, blah blah blah. All the books I’ve been reading have been romances. (Not on purpose at all. I generally make it my rule to hate books in which the main premise is about lovey dovey stuff.) The Selection series (which I read because of the world building, a dystopian world with a caste system and basically the marriage hunger games) and the Twilight series (vampires.) In the most recent book I finished – New Moon – the main character gets dumped by her boyfriend (who is a vampire), and she absolutely tweaks out so hard, so much so that anything I ever do over a guy amounts to nothing. But then, in the end, he “finds her again and its all happy and her heart keeps racing, she should get that checked out”. That is a toxic relationship, built on addiction, over dependency, and a curiosity (not love) about the other person. And WOW did I have to put the book down out of jealousy. Ew ew ewwwww.
(Those ew’s were 12 year old Kiah’s contribution).
Now I’m reading a book about van life that I bought a few years ago. Not romance. (Although it doesn’t stop me from being like “Ohhh wouldn’t it be nice to do van life with another person!!! Like no.) just money, and simultaneously too many and too few dreams for my life.
I said I want to not write about myself so much. I wouldn’t even know where to begin on that one.
All I know how to write about is myself. Every good piece of work that I have ever written has been about me. Even that one essay about Andrew Jackson was directly fueled by my hatred of him. I carefully avoided “I’s”, “me’s”, and “my’s”. Wasn’t any less about myself.
I’m working out now. Not a lot, I have to build up to that. My current thing is run at the track for four minutes (I can do exactly half a mile), 8 squats, 4 push ups (at the beginning of the summer, I couldn’t even do one), 12 crunches, 5 leg raises, and some stretching. It started for my hiking this summer (and didn’t even help), but then I realized if I don’t take care of my body now, when I’m older, it will deteriorate that much faster. I don’t want to be 80 and walk into a hardware store, see that their motorized chair is out of order, throw a fit, cry, and turn around and leave. (And this person was not disabled, unless you call overweight and old a disability). I want to walk. Run. Climb mountains. Aging is beautiful, but only if you do it right.
My mom keeps sending me instagram reels via text, and I keep not watching any of them. I feel bad, but it’s a whole process now to see reels. If she had sent me few and far between reels before deleting Instagram, maybe I’d try a bit harder.
A love song just started playing, let me delete my spotify account real quick.
Ah yes. Sad alternative rock from the 80’s. Perfect.
What was I saying?
Oh, not much of anything.
One of Gilbert’s arms is falling off and I am sad.
I work four days next week, four the week after, four the week after, three, two, and then one. And then I’m done. I can count them. One more this week too, if my math seems off. 19-20 (depending on if my manager decides to screw me over on my last week or not). That’s manageable. I can do that. Right? I’m not in a state of depression tonight (I need to start tracking those things I feel), so everything seems doable.
Communal living might kill me. My emetophobia is flaring just thinking about it. But it was relatively ok last time I suppose.
I should sleep. I have to get up early for church and all that.
Rainy Ramblings 