Zip. Zero. Zilch.

The fact that someone read my last blog makes me kind of happy seeing that I didn't post links to it anywhere. I like to think it means you either stumbled upon it or read it because you want to and you like me. As always, my obsession with who reads this and who doesn't is not the point of this blog. This blog is about those demons that always haunt me that cannot be repelled with salt or iron. Yes, procrastination and writers block.

So, for those of you who are unaware that my life is currently awesome right now should be. It's "spring break". Why is it in February? Why is it not is spring? These are very good questions that I too would like the answers to.  I think February break has a nicer ring to it and doesn't give you false hopes of sunshine and warmth that you desire in the dead of winter.

Apparently February break isn't that much of a break judging by the horror stories I've heard from upper years and the fact that I have two essays due when I get back and a ton of reading that I haven't bothered to touch.

On Monday my excuse was that it was the first day and I was getting things together for my resume. On Tuesday my excuse was that I had piano and that I was handing in said resume.  Yesterday my excuse was that I was hanging out with my friend Erin, clearly no time for working. Today I have no excuse but I can't make myself sit down and look at work.

I've written two pages and a bit but it's like pulling teeth. Every word escapes me and I have to pull it out of my head with such force that the next word escapes just as the first does. I spend an hour pacing my living room just trying to think.

I have a thesis and I know it's pretty solid. For one paper. On Frankenstein.

Darwin, on the other hand, has nothing.

Zip.

Zero.

Zilch.

When did I lose all my inspiration. When did I lose my desire to be me. On any normal day I can write and write and write until I sleep but today is so lack luster. I can still write but not about what I need to.

I feel like it was the other day when I didn't want to do anything. Move, talk, be.

It's always so funny how these things work out. One day everything is great and things are awesome and you actually think you have friends and whatnot and the next you're sitting alone in you room with the lights off and the curtains closed alone watching Amadeus until your mum gets home and you order Chinese food and watch Muppet Treasure Island or you invite someone out and something comes up or you offer someone a drive home friend to friend and they treat the other people you're driving like shit because they don't want to work on your scheduled or you end up taking the back seat to other people always. 

And you feel like you're ready to give up and let the world win. Sink back into your lowly existence that you had before where you were the weird kid, the odd one out, who preferred spending time alone in their room reading books that didn't matter but after so long of not being them, of not having people literally run away from you, of not being made fun of to your face, of actually being kind of liked when faced with this partly chosen exile you can't do it.

You can't go back to being numb, you can't go back to not caring, you can't. And maybe that's worse. When all you hear is can't, won't, and I'm sorry I'm busy tonight maybe another time? And from yourself: you're not good enough, funny enough, likable enough, you're just not enough. But you can't be more. And no matter how many times people tell you you're cool and awesome it doesn't amount to anything because all you know is that tomorrow they won't be there, they won't talk to you, you'll be alone in your house pacing through your living room trying to write a paper and failing miserably.

I know.

Life Unexpected

I started watching Life Unexpected yesterday and don't get me wrong, it's a great show. The plot is extremely predictable and the characters make the same mistakes over and over again but I can say that I genuinely enjoy watching it.

I don't know about you, my faithful readers, but I get emotionally attached to a lot of things. People, books, movies, characters, television shows, sun glasses. You name it, I can attach to it. Some people might say that this is a bad trait and I wholeheartedly agree with them. It isn't the greatest in fact it is probably the root of a lot of my anxiety and sadness but as of right now that's the way I am so I just need to learn how to deal with it.

Anyways, back to this show I've been watching. I've become emotionally involved with the three main characters and when they make a mistake or someone comes back into the plot line (even though you know they had to) I get really upset and flustered and yell at my computer (just imagine how bad I am when I'm part of a fandom *coughcoughfringecough*).

I think this show, though predictable, says a lot about life. Who hasn't made the same stupid mistake twice? Or three times? Or more than three time? Don't you ever wish that your friend would wake up and realize all the stupid things that they're doing or how they're following the same dating trends with the same results and if they want something good to happen they just need to change a little? Do you ever wish that you'd realize this in yourself?

One of the reasons I believe that I get attached to books, movies, television shows and the characters in them is because I can always see a piece of myself in them, even if it's not who I am now. For instance, in Nurse Jackie I see my wishes to be able to pull off her deviousness in my wicked dreams where I become true overlord ruler of the world (it's a pretty sick dream). Books, movies and television are a great media to find out what you are and what you aren't if you can connect with the characters and the situations and not everyone can do this but it is pretty neat.

I don't think this is the real reason that I'm blogging right now though. I have a lot of things flowing through my mind that I want to say but don't feel I can mainly because I don't know who reads this and that could be potentially problematic/embarrassing/I don't know what. Of course this crypticness may only make you more curious as to the thoughts flowing around my brain (it's a very interesting place to be).

All of this being said I would defs suggest watching Life Unexpected (it's currently on Netflix for those of you who have it... Arrested Development is also there and it is also extremely awesome) Have a good night.

A Blog About Books On The Blog Not About Book.

So. I have this horrible habit of book shopping. I don't require any more books (I have approximately 318 books right now and I haven't read about 60 of them.). I think I have a problem.

I've always loved reading. Over my lifetime I've probably read close to 2000 books (That's not including books that I've reread. That doesn't happen too often unless it was really really good and then there's a year of buffer zone to let the story line to fade a little. I have a very good memory for plots. I can summarize any book that I've read in the last 16 months very well. If the book is extremely good I can remember everything that happens in it for years afterwards even if I can't remember the titles.). Every Christmas I would always get four or five books. I believe my obsession with purchasing them started when I was in grade primary. I don't know if your school had it but mine had this lovely thing called the book order. Scholastic put out a sort of catalogue once a month with 40 titles in it. Each month the titles were different and you could get a book for about $4 and if you were lucky it came with a small toy that was related to the books. Once a month my parents would shell out around $10 to buy me a few books to read to me and to have me read (at that point I still wasn't the biggest fan of reading because I couldn't read fast enough and I didn't like to do things that took up a lot of time. I'm still very much that way but I've learned more patience and I can stick with things now). Over the years my book collection grew month by month and the books got more expensive and I starting getting a monthly allowance for making my bed and keeping my room tidy. Instead of saving the dollar I got to spend on sweet I would save them and buy books. As my allowance grew so did the buying. My parents started refusing to buy me books claiming I had too many. So I kept saving and kept buying. Christmas and birthdays became some of the best days of the year because there was always the hopes of new books or money to buy them with and my collection grew.

Then I read the Hobbit. I was enthralled when I opened it. I still remember what it looked like. I got it from the library. It was 6th edition with colour illustrations in mint condition. I devoured ever word and picture of that book and it quickly became my favourite. It came time to return that book my heart broke a little. Parting with suck a lovely book just wasn't an option for me. I started pressing my parents for a copy of the 6th edition with the colour illustrations in it. I looked it up on eBay and found a nicely priced one in England. It was the only one that didn't cost an arm and a leg that was in excellent condition. No dice. I was Hobbit-less. I went to the library and found that lovely copy of the 6th edition again only to find it in shambles. I was heart broken that one of the last people to rent that piece of art was so careless with it. I took it back to the library and showed them the damage and told them if they couldn't fix it I would buy it from them (they have a yearly sale. It's not an odd request). They replied simply that it would be sent in for repairs. I left again heavy heartily and Hobbit-less. I was starting to lose hope. I search the used book stores, thrift stores and many other locations for the book but I could never find it. Then two years ago on my birthday I opened a package from my parents and there it was. A 6th edition of the Hobbit with the coloured book sleeve with minimal damage considering how old it was. I quickly leafed through only to find that the illustrations were in black and white but that didn't matter. i had the book that I searched for years for and I couldn't be happier.

That was when I started referring to my books as "my collection". The Hobbit was the joy of my collection and it is still one of them. I started buying more and more books and looking for older ones to make the value of my collection go up. That's when my problem got to where it is today. I'm like a shark that smells blood when I walk into chapters. I see the books and smell the coffee, paper and ink and I get all ruffled and need to buy everything in my line of sight. In the past year I've probably spent well over $600 just on books.

I have a problem. It's not getting better. But with every book I buy I feel a sense of calm knowing that that edition of that book by whatever author with be taken care of and preserved for future generations. People think the age of print is dying. I'm not going to let it.

If you like this check out the other blog. It's all about the books I read. link's in the side bar :)