who am i to be happy
To set the scene this morning, I woke up from a dream where I was having sex with [REDACTED]. I’ve been having a strange amount of sex with platonic friends recently. [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] being the friends... who’s next, [REDACTED]? Watch out! I sound so predatory. Oh my. I promise, I’m not. (Also, apparently, it's a very normal thing to have sex with random friends, etc. in dreams, according to Google and Reddit, so don't think less of me, please.)
Anyway, point being, I woke up and stretched and awoke the pet children. I decided to go for a walk on this gloomy morning but upon walking for about 20 minutes (almost reaching the creek), it began to rain. Hence, I turned around and picked up pace, briskly strolling homeward. After reaching home, I turned on some soft jazz and a couple lamps (to set that nice ambient atmosphere), removed my clothes (as my jaunt back had risen my internal temperature), and began making some breakfast. Breakfast included a greek yogurt bowl topped with nectarine and honey, and a singular piece of peanut butter toast. I ate this next to Normandy as he played on his new playground that he doesn’t seem to enjoy (quite yet).
After this, I chatted to my mom, showered, brushed my teeth (all while still on this consequential phone call), and got ready for work. And here we are, now at said place (unfortunately). But all is well!
I regained consciousness yesterday by gracing the library with my presence in the early hours of the morning (maybe there were two cars in the parking lot) and found a new book to read. I decided upon “The Hole We’re In” by Gabrielle Zevin because my friend and I have recently both been wanting to read “Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow” but have yet to get our hands on it. Due to my recent reading hiatus, my brain was itching for a good story, and I aimlessly binged over 150 pages by the evening. It’s reinvoked a will to live within myself (haha, I’m kidding, of course).
No but I had a nice night. My friend and I decided last minute to grab some ice cream after work, so I was able to allow my tastebuds the honor of departing in the journey of a new flavor. We sat in front of the moon and debated on whether it's a man or a woman. We decided man, but a lot of people seem to disagree with this decision. Dare I say I'm breaching new territory life-wise? I feel like I have imposter syndrome sometimes because, well, who am I to be happy?
EDIT:
Finishing a book creates this strange feeling of accomplishment, and emptiness, and an unbelievable amount of reflection, sort of blanketing your whole brain, and disbelief that the story is completed. The whole story kind of passes through your mind quickly and you realize it’s really over. You’ve finished the story, there’s no more, and no less. You can’t go back, it’s seeped into your soul forever and ever. You can never read it for the first time again. And the characters will all stay just as they are in those final moments of the book, when you think of it moving forward. And the final statement leaves this lasting feeling that puts a lump in your throat. Maybe it’s just the impact of any piece of art. But finishing a book, something so unique to the author’s subconscious and person that reveals this window into their being, seems to be above all else.
Most hilarious book review of all times on Goodreads.
“This book was a downer with no relief. The characters were not likable and never were able to get themselves out of any of the holes they were in. A stark, pessimistic view of life with no silver lining. Not a beach read. More like a book to get you in the mood to cut yourself."
I don’t know. I give “The Hole We’re In” a 4.5/5. Maybe I’m a generous rater but I couldn’t put it down and typically feel more inclined to the real, some might say “cynical” themes. I like to read books I can relate to and if relating means digging deep down into the person I don’t want to be, that’s a beautiful concept to explore, too. I enjoy books where there aren’t any truly likeable characters, as I’ve said a million times to people close to me. That’s why I tend to rave about Ottessa Moshfegh so much. The cherry on top for me was the “future” section (supposed to be in 2022) somehow being so accurate to where we are at currently. Each book is someone’s own cup of tea but the depressing realness from Gabrielle Zevin was refreshing. So, if you also go to your local library and can’t find “Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow,” give “The Hole We’re In” a chance. You might like it. But then again, I don't know, maybe you'll just be put in the mood to cut yourself.