and counting
Dec. 18th, 2005 12:06 amSo, seeking to avoid retiring to a bare mattress, and chewing gum like a maniac because it gives me something to do, I make a horrible realization:
I have nothing to read.
Well, there's the computer, but there's no books. This is an impossibility in my life. My family lives off books. We don't have walls because we have bookshelves instead (with the nominal exception of my mother's studio, where she sews, which overflows with fabric and beads and wire and thread and paints and yes, dammit, more books; the two bathrooms, which were renovated by somebody other than us and whose only real wall space is taken up either by a mirror (in the hall bathroom) or windows (in the master bathroom) and therefore we have stacks and I put books in the drawers; and the linen closet, which houses jigsaw puzzles instead). Even our narrow hallway has a shelf running above head height and along the tops of the doorways to hold books. We had to kick the fold-out couch out of what was supposed to be the guest bedroom because we turned it into a library. We took a little less than 200 books with us when we moved to England for a measely three years, and we came back with 1500.
There aren't any books. This is like, the Darcy equivalent of throwing water on the Wicked Witch of the West.
... Besides, I may stave of the insanity that is real life with various fandoms (nearly 4gigs of URLs, not including the stuff on DVD), but there is a major difference between someone who writes in someone else's universe, with someone else's characters, and someone who writes with their own. There's also a major difference between sitting in front of a computer all day, getting a migraine and a sore ass and sitting (or lying or standing) wherever you damn please with a book.
Aaaah.
I have nothing to read.
Well, there's the computer, but there's no books. This is an impossibility in my life. My family lives off books. We don't have walls because we have bookshelves instead (with the nominal exception of my mother's studio, where she sews, which overflows with fabric and beads and wire and thread and paints and yes, dammit, more books; the two bathrooms, which were renovated by somebody other than us and whose only real wall space is taken up either by a mirror (in the hall bathroom) or windows (in the master bathroom) and therefore we have stacks and I put books in the drawers; and the linen closet, which houses jigsaw puzzles instead). Even our narrow hallway has a shelf running above head height and along the tops of the doorways to hold books. We had to kick the fold-out couch out of what was supposed to be the guest bedroom because we turned it into a library. We took a little less than 200 books with us when we moved to England for a measely three years, and we came back with 1500.
There aren't any books. This is like, the Darcy equivalent of throwing water on the Wicked Witch of the West.
... Besides, I may stave of the insanity that is real life with various fandoms (nearly 4gigs of URLs, not including the stuff on DVD), but there is a major difference between someone who writes in someone else's universe, with someone else's characters, and someone who writes with their own. There's also a major difference between sitting in front of a computer all day, getting a migraine and a sore ass and sitting (or lying or standing) wherever you damn please with a book.
Aaaah.
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