The Last Paragraph is My Favorite.

My boss told me that I should start a blog. What a good idea, right? Had not crossed my mind before. Joking aside, he said I should start a blog where I did book reviews because he has a friend who gets free vintage clothing and jewelry because that’s what she reviews on her blogs. If for even one moment I thought publishers and authors would send me free books so that I could review them, I’d be on that in a heart beat. Confession: I’ve had a lot of people who’ve told me to try to make money by writing a blog or doing YouTube videos. Which sounds totally cool in theory, but then I also want to say, “That’s cute.” Because, really, have you read this crazy train? The most structured I’ve ever been in the content of my posts was in May, when all I talked about was London.

I hate the idea of doing a serious blog. I never know what I’m going to write when I sit down to write. I want to talk about my struggles with mental health. I want to talk about Harry Potter. I want to talk about attempting to adult and interact with people. I don’t want to play the game of trying to get more and more people to read my blog so that I can become an unofficial expert at amateur book reviews.

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Also, it’s really been important to me to post something every Tuesday and Friday. I like that consistency. I like schedules and routine, actually. But can you imagine trying to read a book and review it in one week? I better be getting paid at that point because that would be my life then. I could probably do a once a month type deal. A book of the month, or possibly a book every two weeks. I feel like I’m too lazy for that sort of dedication.

I have four books that I need to read. Five. I have five books. The list always grows. Anyway– Nope, six books, which I’ll explain– I’ve been given two books to read and then return, an autobiography and then what I think might be a work of fiction. Well, it’s definitely fiction, but I’m also trying to figure out if the author was on drugs when writing it. Then, for my birthday and Christmas, I got three books that I need to read. One of them was a sequel to a book I don’t own and have never read, so I’ll have to figure out how I want to obtain that first book and read it. It’s that series written by Chris Colfer, who annoys the hell out of me. I really found the character of Kurt as pleasant as drilling straight into my ear cavity. That’s probably an awful thing to say. He’s probably a really nice person. Obviously, he holds a variety of interests and talents. Dot. Dot. Dot. And moving on.

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I have the oppressive feeling that I need to read them all right now. ALL OF THEM! But I don’t have time. Well, I could have time, but I also want to practice my ukulele and finish this picture I’m drawing for my sister’s house and I’m watching a Korean drama with my roommate, which is fun but you have to schedule that. You can’t binge watch eight episodes whenever you feel like it. It’s when you both feel like it. There’s also writing and rereading books I need to read again. I get this clawing in my soul where I have to read that story, or that chapter, or even just that sentence, then sit and think about it for an hour. Plus, I’m not sure when I signed this, but I seemed to be contractually obliged to sit on Pinterest for four hours a day.

How do I find time to do anything at this rate? How could I ever sit down and accomplish one thing? Maybe this is the problem of my life and why I don’t ever accomplish anything. My entire life is one big, “Oo! A piece of candy. Oo! a piece of candy,” until I’m trapped. Maybe if I was just better at time management, I could rule the world. Isn’t it crazy that the littlest things could be life changing?

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But, really, I think I just need to want it more. I have this suspicion that life is never a questions of what you want versus what you don’t want. If you don’t want it, it’s not even an option in your mind. Life is really a series of what you want versus what you want more. I want to lose weight, but I want Taco Bell more. So, I get Taco Bell. I want to write and be success, but it seems that I want to be a lazy a-hole more. Which is sad, but fixable. I’m not sure how it’s fixable, probably through some form of Pavlovian training and therapy. I could totally do that, maybe. No, I can do that. Remember when life was easy and your parents did everything for you and you could blame others for your mistakes? Chalk one up for adulthood blowing.
‘Kay, bai.
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