Confession: I like Pink. Not the color, but the pop rock girl that acts dikey but has a husband (or an ex-husband, I’m not completely sure). I know everyone hates her, so it might surprise you that I closetedly (up until this point) enjoy her. I know, I know, I hate everything. Not Pink. When one of her songs come on the radio I start bopping my head, which is the extent of my dance moves repertoire. Today I got cut off three times within a mile on Harrison, but it was all good because Pink was on.
Another confession: I do enjoy reading. I’m a nerd, what can I say. But I also believe in finishing what I start (my dad instilled it into all of us – thus seven years of piano lessons which I loathed). I have a library that cases all my books. Awhile ago, I thought to myself, what is the point of having books if you never read them a second time? So I began reading them for a second time.
I read Good Earth, which was great, then the Bell Jar, which never gets old, then I came across Huck Finn. Two months ago. I’ve come to realize I hate Huck Finn. I think I actually enjoyed this book once upon a time, but now I can’t see why. I’ve been forcing myself to finish it. Steve tells me not to bother with it, but I have to finish. And I hate myself for it. I could have read six other books in this time, but I am still on a raft on the Mississippi River. If this isn’t finished by my trip on Monday, I’m giving up.
I have quite the growing list of books I want to get to one day…when these terrible dialects have finally ended and they sink that raft or whatever happens. I honestly don’t even care anymore, I just want it to end. I’m not going to enjoy reading anymore as a result of Huck. Damn you, Mark Twain, you’re such a killjoy.