You know how sometimes you just need a good, wallow-in-my-sorrows kind of book to reassure you that SOMEONE out there has a crappier life than you, even if it's a nonexistant, fictional character?Yeah, that about sums up my feelings tonight.
Had another crappy, nonproductive day at my $12/hour job, had no luck with the post-graduation, permanent-job hunting, got dissed by a friend, was eluded by yet another great deal on a sofa which means I have to endure the ugly loveseat for even longer, came home to a house with no beer in a kitchen whose floors I just mopped and were dirtied by roommates, and got no comfort by the boyfriend who doesn't quite understand what it means to listen to a girlfriend vent.
Ok, yes, I live a life that's better than 80% of the world. But that doesn't mean I can't just WALLOW for an evening with a sad, sappy book.
So I went looking to my shelves ... and ended up with Sylvia Plath for the woe-is-me feeling, Pablo Neruda for the someday-someone-will-love-me-this-much feeling, and T.S. Eliot to end with a bit of a pick-me-up. And then I decided that was all way too complicated and all the careful thinking I had just expended was starting to take the edge off my wallowing. Man, I can't even get wallowing right.
Thank goodness for St. John of the Cross -- nothing like a little Dark Night of the Soul to get right at the heart of things ....
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