Words

There’s something about reading lists that just gets me every time.

They seem to just pile up around the house, all with different titles scribbled accross (and when I say scribbled I mean sometimes I can’t read them myself) and it’s driving me insane! Instead of reading all of these books, I’m just making useless lists about them. It’s a bit of a chronic problem with me though, and I am not ashamed to admit my list addiction. I may also be slightly or very addicted to stationery, so it all seems to connect very well. So it’s definitely not me, it’s evil outside forces working together against my tired, dreaming, constantly brooding and now employed self.

I just can’t seem to get into any book, and believed me I’ve been on many Shelfari browsing parties and all I do is come up with even more lists. I started The Bell Jar last year, which I’ve been dying to read, and yet I can’t bring myself to finish it for some disturbingly unknown reason. The book is a page-turner, so why do I cringe a little when I see it on my bookshelf? Perhaps because I know that I’ve yet to finish it and already am thinking of new reading adventures?

I guess I should mention I am also slightly neurotic.