Sometimes I like to pretend like I'm a good reader. Lately people at work have been bringing in books on CD. Boredom will naturally bring me to use these books as time fillers. Because of this I can feel like I'm not pretending.
I thought these books were a good thing. I thought of how good for my brain they must be. But all good things must come to an end. I've found a side effect they don't warn you about on the CD case.
These books have made my life the most dramatic, long and confusing novel ever written.
Examples.
At work I grap my pen I hear myself think, "As she reached for the pen to mark the last credit card on the list she found herself thinking back to her not so distant childhood. A look comes across her face, a longing in her heart. She missed Ol'Bessy."
I'm suddenly the narrator of everything.
And when I get home and its a little dark,
"The creaking of the old house sent a chill down my spine. I flip on the light, but even the bright yellow couldn't eliminate the feeling of looming dread."
Eventually it becomes just a little too much. I start to have that same feeling of pissed that I get when I have a Christmas or an old twangy country song stuck in my head.
I blame my imagination for my lack of literary genius.
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