Can you believe I'm still listening to that John Irving book? I can't. And IT IS NOT GETTING ANY BETTER. It is, quite possibly, one of the most boring books I've ever read. He says the same things over and over and over again. It's like a forty-four yard long piece of cloth, folded in on itself until it's a three-foot thick wad of words. I don't know why I haven't put it down. I guess because when I'm listening to a book, I am doing other things at the same time so it doesn't seem like such an incredibly vast waste of time and also, the narrator is talented enough.
Doesn't Irving have an editor?
Well. I should talk.
Oh wait, I do.
And say the same things over and over again. But no one is paying for this shit. No one HAS to read this. Thank god.
I'm struggling again, that's all there is to it. I'm so sick and tired of myself I could die. And do I do one thing that would change anything?
I seem to be as stuck in my own life as I am stuck listening to this novel and frankly, I am quite aware that I am the only one preventing me from doing anything about either.
I just went back and read some of my posts from last November. It would appear that I am generally depressed and my body hurts in November. Mmmm....
Good to know I've always been crazy.
At least last November I had Cozumel for Christmas to look forward to. This year...no. I can't even think about that.
I'm going to go clean the kitchen. I am going to try and keep moving forward. As if I had any choice in that at all.