I want to drink whisky and get in fights. Charles Bukowski usually makes me feel that way. Instead, I’ve done a very nice full face of makeup and am eating leftover pizza, yelling at the cat.
I’ve hit a wall with Bookstravaganza. There are four and a halfish days left and I’m nowhere near my (ridiculous) goal. I’m feeling antisocial, but I also don’t feel like reading. Goddamn it, Bukowski. I am probably not going to read forty books. I’ll settle for matching last year’s total.
But I’m not going to read any more Bukowski after this. I like him a lot, but not for Bookstravaganza. His poems speak to how shitty the world is and how terrible we are to each other. There’s hope there, too, but when I’m trying to get through a million books in a month it doesn’t serve well to read and re-read and re-read and re-read poems like this:
“there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock”
Bad call, past Dorothy. Should’ve picked a different book.
Books read: 29