The One Where She Just Can’t Even


Don’t let the photo deceive you. Today, I am writing from the comfort of my bed.

Why is that?

Well, you can call it whatever you like. Laziness. Boredom. Recovering from reading a 400ish paged book in the span of two hours. (That’s like, around 625 wpm. I’ll let you google the average.)

So, there’s that.

Have you ever just emersed yourself in a book? Like a full-blown drowning in a sea of words and coming up for air only to breathe in more words? Have you ever set your own reality aside and chose to spend some time living in between the lines?

When you do that, you absorb everything. You feel each individual emotion as if it were your own. You’re angry when someone wrongs the protag. Your happy when they triumph. You can’t stop yourself from crying when they get their heart broken.

You’re no longer you. You’re them. You’re the main character.

And it’s your story too.

When you hit that last page (of a really well-written, good freaking book), you find yourself drained. You’ve laughed and cried and cursed and laughed and cried and cursed it all some more.

That’s how I am. Right now. Regardless of what kind of ending it was, I’m just wiped out. I felt too many things all at once, and I’ve been too many things.

But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

So while I laze away the rest of my day, all I’ll say is this: 🐈💨

Yeah. I’m a preschooler.

“A great book should leave you with many experiences, and slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives while reading.” (William Styron)




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