Rainy Days

I was going to be so productive, you guys. My shift tonight at my part-time job selling ladies' panties (Raise your hand if you hate the word "panties.") was cancelled, and I was going to get so much done, you guys.

I was going to clean my bedroom, and my bathroom, and maybe even the kitchen.

But then it started raining. I don't know about you, but it starts raining, and I lose all desire for productivity.

What is it about a rainy day that makes us want to crawl in bed and nap, or curl up in our favorite comfy chair with a good book or our favorite movie with a cup of coffee or cocoa or tea?

Is it the darkening sky in the middle of the day? The wonderfully soothing smell of rain? The sound? 

Whatever the cause, it always manages to chase away every last desire in me to do anything resembling work.

So what did I do instead of cleaning?

I sat on my balcony and enjoyed a cup of iced earl grey tea (Yep. Be jealous.) and read my favorite book ever. (Which happens to be White Oleander by Janet Fitch. In case you were wondering.)

I also took a trip to the bookstore, sat in the aisles reading the books, and then purchased my own copy of The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern, instead of still borrowing Emily's copy. (Don't worry, Em! I'm going to mail it back to you! I promise!)

Last but not least, I made myself comfortable on my balcony again where I'm currently taking a break after watching Doctor Who (Season 4, "Silence in the Library," in case you were wondering.) to write this blog and enjoy the deliciously orange evening light.

Eh. That sounds productive, doesn't it? It involves books, and reading, and getting dressed and going places. Yes. Productive.

Now, I know I'm not the only one who suffers from rainy day laziness. What's your vice on a rainy day?

Stuff That's Bad For You

Yes, I missed a post. But I tweaked my work schedule, and I didn't have time. I'm sorry.

But that's besides the point.

The point of this post is Oreos. And Pringles.

If you're like me, then you like your share of junk food. Everyone has their vices. Ice cream. Oreos. Potato chips. You know yours.

Literature can be the same way. I have a phrase I like to use sometimes about books. "Junk Food Fiction."

Avid readers understand it perfectly.

Junk food fiction is that book that you know is bad for you, that book that you're wasting your brain cells on, but you pick it up anyway. It's okay. Everyone needs a little thinking-free fiction sometimes.

But it's like Oreos. One or two is fine. But if you lose control, soon the entire package is gone and your insides feel awful.

Too much junk food fiction, and your insides feel awful.

My vices?

I have two.


1. Twilight

Source

I'm ashamed to say I've read the entire series. But my curiosity got the best of me. I had to find out what everyone was making a big deal over.

But once I started? It was like a compulsion. I had to find out the ending.

And afterward? My insides felt awful.


2. The Sookie Stackhouse Books

Source

Heard of True Blood? It's based off of these books.

If reading Twilight is like eating too many Oreos, then these books are like that enormous burger covered in cheese and bacon and loaded with too many calories that was just too good to want to take back.

I'll confess I love these books for pool reads, because they take next to no brain cells to read.

I try to be ashamed for this one, but like that burger, I just can't.

Confession time, friends! What are some of your favorite junk food fiction reads?

Who Knows Where

She had never worried about tomorrow. She spent money like it grew on trees, and somehow she never ran out of it. She smoked like a chimney, tanned excessively, never bothering to consider things like cancer. She drove a little too fast, partied a little too hard.

And he loved that about her. She had stayed with him longer, perhaps than she had stayed with anyone, ever. She'd even stayed put for him, given up her lifelong nomadic existence which had begun with her insecure, flake of a mother.

He took her to the place they went on their first date. A picnic in the park, it had been her idea, blanket spread underneath the flowering dogwood. He took her there with a longing to make her his forever, he never wanted to be without her.

He asked her, his voice trembling, offering up his gift, a subtle, yet beautiful ring he knew she'd love. But as soon as he said it, he knew by her face what her answer would be. The color drained from her cheeks, her mouth dropped open, eyes wide with fear.

All she could do was shake her head and whisper, “I'm so sorry.”

But he never heard a word. All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears, the sound of his own heartbeat. He looked up, and she was gone. He knew her things would be gone when he went home, the whole place feeling like the aftermath of a bomb.

He knew she would get in her car and leave. Who knows where this time, but what did it matter? She would stop long enough to make a little money, then move on, leaving more broken hearts in her wake.

But he also realized suddenly how easy it was. Her way, you didn't get hurt, didn't get attached. Little to no risk for the heart. Maybe it would be better that way.

He got in his car, leaving behind the blanket, their picnic, even the ring. He put the gas pedal to the floor, heading to who knows where, but what did it matter anyway?

Hidden Away

Days later, she could still feel traces he'd left behind. His hands on her hips, his arms around her waist, the way he cradled her head when he embraced her goodbye. She could still remember what it felt like, and she longed to be back there, back to those late nighttime hours before she left, before they both had to go back to real life. With his arms around her, it had taken everything she had to keep from kissing him. She knew, even then, once she kissed him, that was it; the last line of defense around her heart would be broken, and then she would be left to his mercy.

Later, they'd said it was because they were both lonely and broken that they'd let it happen; they were starving for a little bit of comfort. And that was probably true. They really were both lonely and broken, and starving for comfort. The thought had even occurred to her, that everything that night had been a mistake, even believed it for a while. She had to tell herself something to keep from falling apart. She had to tell herself she didn't want him, that it was all wrong, the words they said, her kiss on his forehead. She knew she was getting in too deep, and that this time it could wreck her for good. Especially after the complicated history they shared.

He'd said it would never work, it would only end badly. It would be good for a while, but then it wouldn't. He'd been too afraid of hurting her, certain he would break her heart. But the truth hit her like a freight train one night. She didn't believe any of it, not a word. It wasn't a mistake. She didn't regret it at all. She longed for him, his hands on her waist, her hands running through his hair. The thing she really regretted was not kissing him when she had the chance. It struck her full in the chest, knocking the wind out of her. She loved him, and perhaps always would.

This wasn't something she wanted to realize. This was something she'd rather had stayed buried deep down in a corner of her heart. Because in the end, the knowledge served no good purpose. It only emphasized just how far away from her he was, just how fully unattainable. So she did what she always did to cope. She tucked it away again, forgot she ever realized something so momentous, pretended it was just another pointless piece of trivia to file away in the back of her mind. She pretended her heart didn't fill with longing every time her phone showed a missed call from him, every time she saw a picture of him, every time he crept back into her mind. She'd spent a lifetime trying to perfect the art of controlling her emotions, of keeping them hidden away. How hard could it be to forget that she loved him?

Point of No Return

I found her outside a coffeeshop, our coffeeshop, the one where we met, feet propped up on a chair, dark circles looming under her eyes, big like quarters, cigarette in hand.

I pulled the chair out from under her feet, taking back what should have been mine. “I thought you didn’t smoke, Serena.”

As I spoke her name, I realized how fitting it was, she had no idea. Serena. Like siren. Men heard their call, went mad with desire, dashed their ships on the rocks. All they brought was destruction.

“I don’t,” she said, her gaze like the cigarette smoke she blew out, going all around me, but never right at me.

“Obviously,” I replied, shaking my head at her contradiction. It was at her very core, she was contrary by nature. Saying she doesn’t smoke while smoking. Yelling at drivers who cut her off, then merging without looking. Saying she loved me, then disappearing for days at a time. “Where have you been?”

She glared at me, eyes full of fire, the only part of her face betraying her emotion. “Who are you, my mother?”

“No, I’m your boyfriend, in case you’ve forgotten.” Her voice had been like poison, but so was mine. She should know how it felt.

“Boyfriend,” she muttered, low and cruel before taking a drag on her cigarette. “Aren’t we a little old for labels like ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend?’”

It hurt me, right to the core, but I didn’t let her see. I remembered a time when her eyes lit up when she introduced me. “This is my boyfriend.” There was a time we belonged to each other, once. Now she belonged to no one, not even herself. But I. . . I was still hers.

I wondered what kept me there, why I stayed. I should have left ages ago, I knew that. I was fed up; her coldness, her absence, the way she could destroy me with a single look. But then I remembered her eyes full of light and warmth, the way she cried at sad movies, her hand on my shoulder when my father died.

She had been gone longer this time. Five days, but I hadn’t worried as much as I should have. I stared openly, trying to figure out where she’d been, waiting to see if she’d own up to anything. But she was a wall, impenetrable.

Then I saw it, the red, blotchy bruise on her neck, and I knew where she’d been. My heart turned to stone, cold, dead, just like hers was. I reached across the table and pulled out one of her cigarettes. I saw her face as I lit it, took a puff, and I smiled inside.

“I thought you didn’t smoke, Jude,” she told me.

“I don’t,” I said, my gaze like the cigarette smoke I blew out.

Guilt

The song came on the radio, suddenly, abruptly, hitting my heart like a freight train. The Script's Breakeven. I could hear the singer's pain, his heartbreak from unrequited love, his lover leaving him, and the guilt crept upon me, choking me.

I knew this was what she felt like whenever she heard it, the one the song was about. I could tell that the first time she heard it on the radio, she knew that it was written about her, about what she did to him. She must have felt her guilt like a brand across her chest, searing, burning. Like I did.

I wondered how many mornings I would wake up feeling like a boulder was laid across my chest, how long the guilt would eat away at me. Perhaps it would leave nothing behind, only an empty shell, devoid of everything, even the guilt. Especially the guilt. Maybe then it would finally get better.