I have something I need to get off my chest.
I have a Pinterest account. There, I’ve said it. To alleviate any angst that my revelation may have evoked, I will put your minds at ease and announce that the account has not been accessed in some time. In fact, one could say that I have and I haven’t a Pinterest account. It’s the equivalent of someone stating that they HAVE a humorous blog, but the content is humorless (maybe it’s nothing like that). Regardless, that time is behind me; and it’s a good thing too. My Y chromosomes were beginning to question their existence.
But before I get too carried away with my overly built up hostility towards Pinterest, let me inform you on what it helped me accomplish.
Those who have been diligently reading my blog know that I have been attempting to read a minimum of one book per month. This is difficult when all aspects of life coalesce into a heaping pile of
shit sunshine and flowers. You all know what I am saying…Okay, so maybe not all. Anyhow, more reading equates to more books. And more books…Well let me create a competent diagram to help everyone better under the complexity of it all:
I have done the reading, I have accumulated the books, and now I need a bookshelf. That is where Pinterest enters. The site has some pretty awesome Do It Yourself (DIY) projects, and who doesn’t love some good DIY? I found one that turned cheap crates into nice decorative bookshelves. Due to my lack of space at the moment, I only awarded myself three crates. (For all those mathematician majors, or minors, you are correct in your calculation of only two crates pictured below. For those who are seeing three, I’ll have what you are having.)
Once I had the proper tools, I began the transformation. I popped open the can of stain and slathered it onto the crate until the proper pigmentation. My antecedent knowledge on the aforementioned process was nil. After one crate, I could have been a member of the Black Hands. You could have called me Gavrilo Princip. (A little Serbian humor for you.) This meant that gloves were like batteries; not included. From that point forward, I embraced the stain and decorated my bod with the war paint. In all fairness, the fumes were beginning to saturate the air and I was on cloud nine. I suppose I also underestimated the word stain, because for the next two days my chest was speckled with the stuff. I could have been handed off to the victors at the Brit Awards. Preferably Lana Del Rey. Anyhow, enough about that. Here are the results:
Future…but with actual books.
Books. Only a letter away from having my complete interest…You know, ’cause I love to cook and all. Ahem. Ahem. Still, I stand not at ease with books, but at attention. I love a finely worded sentence that when woven together with one thousand six hundred and ninety-one others, placed on a delicate roll of parchment, and professionally bound, construct a book. Books provide me with a mind-bind fond-bond experience! Once upon a time I thought about becoming a librarian. (Sidenote: Are you aware that all librarians have master degrees? I was completely unaware of the educational prowess it took to become a librarian. It turns out that you do not just need a pair of glasses.) Instead I settled upon a career in teaching. Just the same, fortune and fame are not in my future. Only an ample amount of free time awaits me. Such is the horrible trade-off (>.>). But with that time I can read these books that I have so fervently excreted over. Ever hear of the white album? Yeah…
I enter into sporadic spurts when involved in books. There will be months on end that I only read for necessity, and not out of the necessity of pleasure. Then, out of the fog (because the blue is limited in my realm), I will immerse myself in word soaked paper and read. I have been tracking my progress with GoodReads.com; a site I suggest you join and friend me, even if we are not actually friends and it is just a mutual agreement to criticize one another’s atrocious reading selections. Well, your atrocious reading selections, unless of course you are reading what I am. Then it is okay. Straight up. Word. Speaking of such, I do not care for the phrase: “The book is too wordy.” It is a book. It consists of nothing but words. And I know what they mean, but before we fix the book, let’s fix their vocabulary. Too wordy? Gah! I digress…
Now that I have expressed my interest in books and have established the amount of time I have to read such wonders; I need to find them. This is where I stand at another ill-slated front. Do I buy, borrow, or steal? I want to start defining my book collection, but I do not want to forfeit appropriate currency to build it. I have found myself wavering on a borrow/buy concept. First I will borrow the book from el biblioteca (library). I like borrowing from the library; the books have character. They are soiled and worn. Just imagine all the fecal matter that has been disposed of in the presence of one book. That is a lot of shits. And with shits, comes innovation – ideas. Or maybe just shitty ideas. On that same topic, I often wonder which is dirtier, a pornographic magazine or a library book? That’s a good ‘ole mind tickler. Anyhow, I borrow the book, read it, and if I enjoy its contents I will splurge the three dollars at a thrift store or Amazon PRIME and purchase that book for my collection. I know, this concept leaves people dumbfounded. Why would I buy a book I have just read and have no intention of reading it again anytime soon? Good question. No equally good answer. Because my bookshelf is bare? Because I want to support the authors (who are mostly dead)? Because I want my collection of books to be a representation of myself? Science fiction and fantasy mixed in with a touch of non-fiction and historical accuracy. Not all in one book of course, but that’s not to say that it can’t be. Historically accurate fantasy. Do you believe in magic? Perhaps in a young girls heart…Or maybe I buy the book just because…I do what I want.