Books books books books books. I feel a serious sense of achievement lately, because I’ve gotten the chance to read several books already this year. I’ve been frequenting the library several times a week this month, and am already 33% of my goal on goodreads.com (follow me! The link is on my contact me menu thing). It’s not that reading is a new thing for me, definitely not, but getting so much time to do it is a great feeling. So yeah, my grades have slipped slightly (an A and a B isn’t that bad, right?). I don’t care.
I’ve limited my social interactions to once a week instead of twice, and after work I clean, I eat, I read, I sleep. It’s pretty cool, and I hope it lasts.
Unfortunately, my brain keeps reminding me that this is what my therapist was talking about with the perfectionism thing. I find it hard to do something for fun unless I go all out and have something to feel proud of. It’s the “I should read 100 books this year” kicking the shins of the “I’d like to read 100 books this year” mentality that I should have. Hm. Should. I’m confused.
Whatever how can reading be a bad thing?
I’ve also discovered a new love for the newspaper and its crossword puzzles.