it’s not my home, it’s their home

Today, I realized what I hate about living at home the most. And it’s that there isn’t a decent place to read a book in here. The lighting is poor (energy saving bulbs are shite), there are few available chairs/couches, and there is always noise. Always. When you have five, sometimes six people living in a house which has been a few years outgrown, a moment’s peace is hard to come by. Well not so much peace, but a spot to read more than 10 pages without getting distracted by clattering pots or four straight minutes of running water. All I would really look for in an apartment is a place for a bed and a big chair with a bright lamp next to it. And probably a monkey butler. So if any of you know where I can find a cheap studio apartment that allows very domesticated pets, let me know.

On a vaguely related note, I am waiting with boner-fueled anticipation for Chuck Klosterman’s new book, which drops tomorrow. After reading the head scratcher that was Downtown Owl, it’s relieving to see that he’s written a follow up to Sex, Drugs, and Coco Puffs. Or anything really, as long as it’s not in novel form. I can’t remember being this excited over a book since they heyday of Goosebumps, which we all know declined in quality after #35 (though Monster Blood III was probably the shark jumper). This summer marked an upswing in reading. I think I have read about 15 books this year, up from a whopping three in 2008. These numbers are due in part to my drastically reduced video game playing (despite clocking in 75 hours in Final Fantasy XII since September) and the fact that I actually have money to purchase books. But most of it has to do with trying to keep up with Ashley. I am waaaaay behind.

But other than all that, life is kicking ass for the first time in a while.

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