Way back when I started this blog and it was called something else…I can’t really remember what it was called but that doesn’t matter…
I wrote about sad things.
I hated my job, and felt worthless and incompetent and dreaded going back to college and dreaded doing anything other than writing sad things on this blog.
When I picked it back up again last year…
I only wrote about sad things.
My mom had just been diagnosed with cancer, I was in a relationship that was going nowhere, I was overweight, and miserable most of the time…and enjoyed posting on this blog because it didn’t tell me “I’m sorry…” just to shut me up…and didn’t tell me to grow some cahonies and get over it…and it didn’t tell me to do something else with my time.
When I picked it back up this year….
I promised myself I’d only write about happy things.
I am in a great relationship, I’m graduating college in three years, and generally have a lot of things going for me.
…but I can’t read.
I can read what I’m typing and can read signs and I’m not saying I’m illiterate, but books which used to be the most wonderful thing in the world don’t have any appeal to me anymore. Magazines still do because they’re quick and easy and I can find a few things that interest me…but I’ve read the first chapters of at least seven books lately and placed them in a small pile for later and decided I don’t need their sass basically.
I can’t read.
I don’t know if this is a symptom of losing interest in things I used to love, and I don’t know if losing interest is a symptom of something else.
…but I can’t read.
I can’t even read chick lit.
or T.S. Eliot’s poetry.
or stuff for class.
This is getting ridiculous. I need to either sit down and force myself to finish a book or slap myself in the head with the book until its contents become interesting.
I just wanted to share…because this is one of those strange things that no one really understands…welcome to my life.