Howdy Fellas

Well, hello.

I will be honest with you, the fact that I’m making a blog simultaneously makes me cringe while also forcing me to wonder why I didn’t do it sooner. As I stare down the end of my undergrad experience, I am telling myself to start doing more things that I enjoy, and fewer things that I don’t. So, here I sit, tapping on my silly little laptop.

I started reading again this year. Like, I’ve always managed to read, but my first three years of undergrad were spent poring over a time-consuming course load, keeping track of every little social box to tick, and of course, teaching myself to be a Functioning Grown Up. The kind of grown-up who doesn’t need parentals to complete every task. I find though, that the older I get, the more I need them – Dad, how do I set up a utilities account? Dad, what’s a 401k (it’s not a fancy type of firearm? A spaceship? Okay…)? Dad, what does this professor mean asking me about “internal rate of return” and damn it, why can’t I Economics, I took Differential Equations! But, one of the best things that Dad ever bestowed upon me, beyond the good old-fashioned ‘send handwritten thank-you notes,’ ‘change your oil before it hits the sticker’, and my personal favorite ‘don’t panic’, was an appreciation for books. I could’ve said good books here, but my unpopular opinion is that most books are pretty good, and it’s hard to find a bad one. I will stick my fingers in my ears and sing off-key very loudly if you try to fight me on this one.

When I was little, my dad and I would wake up every Sunday to get to church. I’d sit still squirm and annoy my folks until service was over because I knew that afterward, we’d make our weekly pilgrimage to the most Sacred of Grounds – the Books-A-Million on 23rd Street. He would set me loose on the poor grounds of that book store not unlike an unleashed puppy in the treat section of a PetSmart. It started with the Rainbow Magic Fairy series (my sincerest gratitude to Miss Rainbow Rowell, literary master that she is). I cycled through fantasy, horror, sci-fi. My sweet dad would pop over to the latest Stephen King display quietly, knowing that coming between the shelves and I might result in a bitten-off fingertip. I’d return back to him invariably with an armful of books, begging for all of them. Then, of course, the agonizing process of which of my loot would actually come home with me (But how could I possibly choose, Dad? Don’t be cruel!) I would whittle down my selection for another decade, then we would take our haul to the in-store Joe Muggs coffee bar. I would get a hot chocolate, and we’d read the rest of the afternoon, home in time for Sunday dinner. Good, good, doubleplusgood stuff.

When I hit college, I had no time, perhaps negative time, to read. I used to BURN through books. Voraciously. If I started it, I finished it. If I hated it, the book might take a week. If I loved it, the book might take my sleep schedule. However, doing life on my own and facing a brain-smooshingly high level of stress left me little energy to read. The end of my sophomore year, I was almost convinced my brain had atrophied, I couldn’t tear through them the same anymore. I was worried, and in some ways, mourning. A book is the best friend one can have sometimes.

I certainly read some great books in this period, which I’m sure I’ll want to talk about in upcoming posts. The list of Favorite Books I Simply Must Write About is already brewing in my head, and grows exponentially the more neurons I spend on thinking about it. However, I started reading in earnest again over this summer. And boy, did I miss the feeling of starting a book before bed, finishing it, then looking up at the clock to realize that you forgot to conceptualize how time works. Addictive. Schedule 1 level, they should get the DEA on this, seriously.

All this is to say, it might’ve been a while,

but damn, it is good to be back.