For me there are eight levels of how much I like a book.
One. I can’t read it. I just can’t. I mean, I’ll try if I really have to, but after reading the same paragraph half a dozen times, I’m just going to give up and google my way to a summary. It’s so extraordinary bad that I just can’t read it. My brain goes on a strike as soon as I try. It’s figuratively holding up a small sign saying “What do we want? Entertainment. When do we want it? Now!”
Two. I don’t want to read it. This is the part where my brain and I are sitting at opposite sides of the negotiation table, trying to work something out. My brain is threatening to go on another strike, but I successfully calm her down by promising her entertainment right after this one last job. Sure, neither of us actually wants to read the book, but we’ll struggle our way through it. Teamwork. Continue reading “The Levels of Liking a Book”
Let’s just start with getting that one out of the way.
I – Am – Crazy.
Nuts. Weird. An oddball. There’s just something wrong with me.
I like pineapples on pizza.
I know. Horrible, isn’t it? It’s one of those things where I know that it’s wrong, but I just can’t help myself. I mean, some people like necrophilia. Other people fuck farm animals. And I… I like pineapples on pizza.
It’s just so delicious. The juiciness and the freshness of the pineapple that keeps the meat and white bread from becoming cloying. It’s the perfect condiment. I can just feel myself starting to drool as I write this post.
I suppose I could stop myself from eating it. Just because I can’t control my liking it, doesn’t mean I can’t control my actually eating it. There are countless of recovering alcoholics out there, and if they can do it, surely, I can as well.
I just don’t want to.
Perhaps I’m weak.
Perhaps I should be ashamed.
And perhaps… perhaps it’s just some freaking pineapple on a freaking pizza?
So… why care?
Let the people have their pineapples.
We’re not forcing you to eat it.
That’s step two.
They say that a minute
In a lover’s embrace
Passes like a second
A heartbeat might outpace.
They say that a minute,
With your finger to the flame
Is like days and hours passing
As you’re only feeling pain.
I say now that a minute
Feels like many years combined
When on the phone you hear a voice
Saying you’re next in line.