So okay, I read something. Yay me. And it took effort, real effort, to do so. I mean I enjoyed what I read. And I wanted to read what I read but … I’m still not feeling the reading love … yet. It’s there; I can feel the love lurking inside me, like a dormant pimple. One you want to appear so you can pop it (yup, I’m a pimple popper and know it’s wrong and gross and I have no idea why I’m sharing this with y’all) but won’t come until you gotta show your face somewhere more important than the grocery store. How I went from reading to pimple popping, I don’t know but I might be a writing genius.

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