I haven’t written an entry here that I’m proud of in a really long time. I’m just reporting my day half the time, and I’m not even doing that too well. I’m hoping this will change as I continue to read more. Cari suggested The Glass Castle, and based on page one, I’m in for a good one. I absolutely LOVE owning books. I try never to borrow because when I’m done, I like to put them on my bookshelf as a little trophy of what I’ve accomplished. Though it will never impress like Robin William’s Sean of Good Will Hunting or Powder’s library of memorized literature, it means something to me. I haven’t even started my book, but I carry it with me everywhere because I love the texture of the pages, the font, the cover, the thickness. When I carry it, I clutch it against my chest with the title facing out. I never appreciated reading when I was younger. I think I have some ability to write well, at least a solid potential, but lack of exposure and a weak vocabulary has limited me, as discussed in the previous entry. In fact, I don’t even know if I’ve loved “writing” so much as I do typing. I love typing so much that I sit at any computer with an open Microsoft Word page in front of me, and I just start typing as quickly as I can, whatever comes out. And I’m soothed by the clicking of the keyboard instantaneously. Of course, I ended up typing so much that I began to have shooting pains up and down my wrists, and my job begrudgingly sent me off to the doctor and purchased me an ergonomic keyboard, which immediately became by new best friend. So, I’m sure that I write so much just because typing brings me so much joy, and I’m sure this is also the reason why everything I write is stream of consciousness, but not necessarily “good.”

My sisters loved to read when we were younger. I think they did. I’m guessing Terri did considering she’s a professional writer. Safe to assume they come as a package deal. The other one wasn’t so much into reading, but she enjoyed little series like all the Judy Blumes, the Beverly Clearlys, and the Babysitter Clubs. I, on the other hand, had collections of Garfield comic strips. They never made me laugh out loud. I don’t even think I ever cracked a smile, but I read them. My mom told me they didn’t count, and kept insisting I read real books. I refused. Now, I’m 26 years old, a BA in Human Development from Boston College, and there were a number of words in Harry Potter that I was embarrassed to discover I did not know. Had I been younger, I would mark them, look them up, and write down the definition, but now – I just turned red in the presence of no one and thought to myself, “I’m going to read to my kids everyday so they never have to feel this dumb.” Of course, I then envisioned me curled up next to my child in an adorable little twin bed, reading in a soft, relaxing voice, and then my little child looking up at me asking, “What does that word mean, Mommy?” To which I reply, “I don’t know, honey. Do you think I even pronounced it right?”

Okay...home now. <long sigh>. Even though only several days in my apartment has drastically transformed it from hotel-tidy to the aftermath of a natural disaster, it is always, ALWAYS sooo nice to be home. I had a nice day at work. Nothing great happened. No amazing conversations ensued. No major accomplishments, but that's enough to make a work day nice. I've had so many recently that will be burned into my memory as redefining misery that having a day like today is such a relief - a day I can forget. It's like some terrible weight just lifts off my shoulders the instant I walk into my apartment.

And though I allow myself a solid half hour of wind-down time once I come home from work, I know that I have a long night ahead of getting my ass to that fucking gym and cleaning my ass off before this apartment buries me alive. Why is putting clean clothes into my drawers such an impossible task? It's just not very difficult at all, but I dread actually doing it like I'm allergic to it. I really want to just stare at the wall. Not depressed. Not even sad. I just want to sit in my chair and just stare. Why does that sound so appealing? Really though, if you think about it, when do we often allow ourselves time to just think? I used to sit and think for about 20 minutes every morning before school. It was in my bedroom in NJ. Getting ready for school was pretty easy when it's all girls with uniforms. Navy blue or gray - that was about all I had to decide. My favorite combination was the navy blue sweater with the gray skirt. Actually, it was the short sleeved white button down, the navy blue sweater vest, and the gray skirt with gray socks. We weren't allowed to wear white socks. We actually got INTO TROUBLE for wearing white socks because the handbook said navy blue or gray socks only. Also, knee socks weren't allowed. Fucking Catholic school, and the socks HAD to go to the ankles. This was after 6 years in my Catholic private grammar school where we got scolded for our knee socks not pulled up all the way. Anyway - no make-up. You were often made fun of for wearing make-up to school. "Who the hell are YOU trying to impress," we would say. Okay, so shower, throw on the uniform, and you're done. Takes about 17 minutes if you took a long 15 minute shower. Then, 20 minutes sitting on the floor of my bedroom staring off into space and just thinking. Wasn't clearing my mind, wasn't thinking or focusing on anything specific. Just letting my mind go. I'd snap out of it, grab my LLBean backpack that probably weighted about 30lbs, and then wait for the van to pull up if I wasn't old enough yet to drive off. That was it - my alone time everyday, and I loved it. I could use a little of that these days. You know, if I actually just kept this damn place clean, I would free up a lot of time, but like I said, I must be allergic to keeping things easy and clean.

Half hour is almost up. Off to the damn gym. Talk to you later.