Books, and thoughts

Oxford comma. I've started reading again. And I'm glad. I still love Vonnegut. The Breakfast of Champions was sort of funny, but mostly it was enthralling. There was like after line of things I appreciated. On my Kindle I can highlight things, and that's all I do when reading his books. I have to make sure I don't just underline everything because it would ruin the point.

"I had come suddenly to pity them, for I understood how innocent and natural it was for them to behave so abominably, and with such abominable results: They were doing there best to live like people invented in story books."

Why don't people write about life? Vonnegut answered it in his book, but his answer was bullshit and he knows it because he writes about ordinary people.

I've also read Murakami, multiple Bukowski, multiple Wodehouse, and another Bukowski right now. They write about life, if somewhat fancifully on Murakami's part. Why do other people write about shit? Is it really an escape?

Oh well. People are people and are allowed to read what they want. That seems like a cop out too but I don't have an answer.

Reading through my trusty notebook. There's lots of shit in there. Oh well.

I wrote a short story based on my economics lecture. It was fun, but sputtered out pretty quickly. Trade off between food and books!

I like this bit, but it's because I just wrote it two minutes or so ago. "I don't give a shit. But I do. It's an awful feeling. But I don't have to dwell on it any longer. It's just a part of life. Is that normal? Why am I so worried about being normal?"

Does normal exist? Dunno. Thanks y'all. Not advertising this one on the Face, because it's very irrelevant. If anyone wants to find it, they will. I'm the real audience so that's what matters.