My day began at 12:00am this morning where I was still reading "The Slap", sitting on the couch as my husband watched an interesting French movie on SBS, both of us bleary eyed.
It had been ages, AGES since I had bought a book and I didn't realise how precious it was, walking out of the book store with that book in the white paper bag with a spring in my step the day before in my lunch hour, fighting my way through the seething masses of kids and zombie eyed adults going about their business in the zombie shopping centre.
At 1:30am our eyelids began to close and we crawled into bed.
I finished the book at around midday, exhausted from all the "fuck's", "cunts" and "cocks" peppering the pages and although it was confronting, explicit and violent I don't know if I enjoyed it.
I couldn't, however, put it down.
My personality has always been all or nuthin, up or down, crazy or quiet, addicted or not.
A (happy) medium, a level, a sustainable point or line in the sand would be nice, boring but agreeable and pleasant if for a short time.
And so I read it till I had turned the last page.
My cousin, an avid reader who takes a suitcase of books on holidays with her to read under a sun umbrella by the hotel pool will be the recipient of it next time I see her.
"It's graphic and there's heaps of fucking".
"You'll love it".
The housework beckoned and I put another load of washing on whilst watching my ironing pile escalate.
What would my carbon footprint be getting rid of all that shit I wondered.
Random thoughts came and went.
I went shopping.
I had a fight with my husband.
Then a fight with my eldest son.
And now I'm here.
Measuring the influence of Andrew Bolt
2 days ago