How is your mood right now?
When I tell you I’ve been an internal wreck for the past 48 hours I mean I’ve shed three tears for unrelated reasons, I’ve twice concluded I’m completely talentless and probably ought to go live my life out in a cave somewhere, and I’ve spent at least one oxymoronic hour staring at walls feeling stressed about a) how busy I am and b) the meaning of existence in general.
Allow me to zoom in for a moment: I just grew medium-furious when an innocent person asked me, amiably, how I was doing as I walked past them. Suffice it to say it’s probably best not to look me in the eye today lest you (or I) spontaneously combust.
While we are on the topic of abhorrent-yet-insignificant things, can we discuss the horror of the fitted sheet slipping off the mattress? Or when someone comments on the weather-appropriateness of your outfit? Or, most awfully, the brand of humor wherein a dude makes a taunting, unfunny comment, you react calmly and rationally, and in return he gives you: “Whoa! Calm down! I’m kidding!”
A person I enjoy socially did that to me today and I promptly chatted a friend and used not one but ~30 capitalized words demanding they agree this style of “humor” needs to die in a fire. They agreed.
Someone needs to put me in a padded room.
I finished The House We Grew Up In by Lisa Jewell on my walk to work this morning and wept (#3) at the gut-wrenching beauty of it. I almost ran into 10 people due to stalking the city sidewalks with my face buried in a kindle and I likely missed just as many pointed glares in the process. This was the risk I took for The House We Grew Up In, the book about which I couldn’t pinpoint my feelings (meh?) until I finished it (*sob*).
I’m also in the middle of Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay. She’s lovely and it’s lovely and I absolutely recommend it, but my disobedient brain can’t help but keep a tally of all the words she recycles. Why? Oh Roxane, my scrabble-loving queen, why?
True or false. This is an Onion headline:
False. I’ve thought of this headline several times over the past week, unsolicited, and I can’t tell you specifically why it tickles me so much. This is probably the most I’ve ever thought about an article and consequently shared said article with friends without actually having read it. I’m also pretty into the URL tail:
Speaking of absurdity, in searching for an email earlier this morning I stumbled upon my and Kelsey’s era of intensely researching Tyra Banks’ debut dystopian novel Modelland.
We exhaustively read its reviews for hours and I can confidently say that time was not wasted. I haven’t actually read the book (although I do own it and admit to reading excerpts for the odd pick-me-up) but the reviews of it are enough to get me through the trials and tribulations of humanhood.
Here is one of my favorites, titled: Please Join Me In Bringing A Class-Action Lawsuit Against Modelland.
This book is unspeakably, horrifically terrible. It makes me regret having been such a tough grader on every other book I have ever read, because if any book was ever deserving of a single star, it is this one. Actually, if I could give negative stars, I would. I have read a lot of awful books in my day, but this one truly may be literally the worst book EVER WRITTEN.
And the writing. Oh, the writing. It couldn’t be any worse. One of Tookie’s friends comes from a dimly-lit country called Canne del Abra. The very first page includes the line, “the fog lifted like a push-up bra.” There are a gazillion other terrible lines or names (I think Tyra was going for a Harry Potter-esque “the names have a hidden meaning” thing, but she was just way too obvious and/or cloying with everything), but I have blocked them out because this book gave me some weird form of PTSD.
The worst part of all of this is that this is only first book of a trilogy! NOOOOOO. WHHYYYYYYY. I doubt the reality of a merciful god! This book is UNSPEAKABLY BAD. I feel that everyone who has read it should come together to file a class-action lawsuit against the publishers. I know I suffered much emotional distress and deserve some kind of compensation. I know that every time I write a terrible review, a few masochistic people who follow my reviews go out and read the books to see if it’s really that bad. PLEASE don’t do that this time. This book actually caused me REAL SUFFERING. Learn from my mistakes, I beg of you!
It still kills me years later.
In other Reaction-To-The-Thing-Is-Better-Than-The-Thing news, I bring youJurassic World: High Heels Edition. Remember when I wrote you about 70,000 words on this topic? Forget all of that. This is all we need.
Another foil to my week 4 is the sale happening at Need Supply. 30% off all sale items with code GRAB30. I condone the use of this code and the perusing of this site, even though I briefly met some of their buyers once and they were too busy observing the air directly behind my body to acknowledge my existence.
That reminds me: if you had to choose between invisibility and flight as a superpower, which would you choose? I’d choose invisibility and think you’re totally nuts if you disagree. Get at me in the comments, nothing would make me happier than killing several hours debating this.
Oh. But who needs hypothetical superpowers when there might actually be real ones? My brother sent my family this very digestible article that expounds very indegistible concepts, like the enormity of the cosmos and puzzling existence (or lack there) of extraterrestrials. It’s called Where Are All The Aliens? My favorite possibility is the Zoo Hypothesis. Austin’s is the ant-highway theory. I need to know all your visceral reactions upon reading this piece of eye-opening journalism. Let us never forget future humans think we are massive idiots.
I’ll leave it at that as I can’t imagine it gets more important. Thus concludes something very vaguely resembling a links post.
To all my Week 4 queens: hang in there. To everyone else: enjoy your hormonal bliss.