I had a creative writing professor my last year of college who told me I was one of the greatest students with whom he’s ever been blessed; however, he thought I could benefit from exploring literature and poetry. Though my writing was already bold and exciting, he believed I could only improve if I allowed myself to be influenced by as many authors and styles as I could expose myself to. In short, he told me the best thing I could do after graduating was to read A SHIT TON OF BOOKS.
A few years have passed since I received my degree so it’s possible some of that information is slightly exaggerated by a combination of elapsed time and my fragile ego–we may never know. What we do know is, like with all my other assignments, I procrastinated and opted to instead watch A SHIT TON OF NETFLIX. But like those other assignments, I found my way back to it, just a bit (ahem, six years) later than I probably should have.
This is my way of bragging that I just finished my 18th book of 2016 and have read just over 5,000 pages this year.
Holy fuck, right? See, my professor was onto something. I’m getting more eloquent already.
You know how in my last post, I talked about how much I adored my apartment and decorating and making it a home? Well my current roommate has told me she will be moving out come July 1, and as most of the furniture in our shared living space is hers, she will be taking it with her. I was fortunate enough to find a new roommate quickly and with great ease, so the stress level has receded, but financially, I was not yet off the hook. When I said most of the furniture is hers, I wasn’t kidding. The couch? Hers. The tv and tv stand? Hers. The lamp? Hers. The chair, the pillows, the dining table, the beautiful grey and yellow rug? Hers, hers, hers, half-hers (we thought splitting that one would be a good idea, and see in retrospect, it was not). The thought of my once-comforting home being depleted into a vacuous room was stressing me out. I’d still have my record player, but no chair in which to sit and enjoy the music. I’d have my book case, but no couch on which to read my books. And what would we do about the rug? Pull a Solomon and cut the thing in half?
Clearly, the whole thing was getting to me. Fortunately my new roommate has again soothed my anxieties because she also loves decorating and also also loves vintage, old lady, kitschy chic. Our house may come together much quicker and with less a financial burden than I worried it would because as it turns out, orange floral couches are relatively inexpensive.
Excited by the prospects of turning my home into a living museum, I found an adorable bar cart at an antique store in OB. She was put in their warehouse and simply forgotten about. I related to her neglect and knew I had to give her a good, loving home.