Not Every Book Ends on the Last Page

Every year on the first of January, I make a reading goal for myself. Usually it comes in the form of a number: how many books I’d like to have read by the time December thirty-first rolls around.

Sometimes this makes me a desperate reader. Actually, being a reader makes me a desperate reader. If I open the pages of a book, I have to finish them. Otherwise, I feel like a failure.

This year, I’ve decided to be more forgiving of myself. If I’m not feeling a book, I’ll DNF it.

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Stress: It’s the Worst

I can’t really make it any more eloquent than that.

The thing about stress is, you can’t make it go away with logical thinking. Even if you know you’re being ridiculous. Even if you know there’s nothing to be stressed about.

Especially if you know that the emotion of stress isn’t doing anything to help control whatever situation it is you’re in.

You just can’t help it. You’re still going to be stressed.

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The Elusive Art of Decision Making

Until I was twelve years old, I asked my mother for validation before pouring myself a glass of water. 

When friends would show up at the door, sneakers scuffed from walking the country road half-mile to my house, I’d tell them I couldn’t play and then sit stewing for hours, imagining how much fun I’d be having if I’d only said yes, instead. 

At sixteen I’d be invited for road trips, a quick text with a simple “yes” or “no” the only ticket I needed to gain access. I’d consider the pros and cons: would I miss a TV show if I went? What inside jokes would I be excluded from if I didn’t? I’d think about it for so long that by the time I would finally decide to go, it would be too late. The friends had already left. 

I’d missed the train. 

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