Monday, 25 June 2012


I have work, but instead I'm reading a shitload of things I should not be reading, knowing full well that my emotions are rather easily swayed and unstable when it comes to well written prose and angst. Because holy crap, when the hurt is good, and I feel like crying - all is well with the world.

My weakness for fiction will someday be my undoing.

I like happy stories, I like fluff - the easy (love) stories which flows without much resistance, I like it when a story feels like a perfect summer day - just warm enough to leave you with the fuzzies.. But when something leaves me shaking and torn and so utterly forlorn.. *fans self* I love sad stories. I really do. Angry stories too. I like, like, love. I love unresolved endings, characters left wondering, with closure being a vague concept for silly people who can't handle the hurt, and wanting to slam my laptop because you can't do this to me! What happens next!? Stories left not quite finished.

This is probably why I spend too much time on the internet.

I must stop reading. Work awaits.

Fuck work, I need more stories.

1 comment:

colson said...

Books are ( well, can be) treasures of imagination, adventure, perspectives, creativity and beauty.

So, take care, take care.

I used to be one of those happy workaholics who only when he got pensioned, almost too late, discovered work diverts attention from life.