I’m reading a book right now, as I always do, and what am I reading? Authors from years past just loved to bore and confuse their readers. Either that, or I need more Adderall. Whatever the case, I wish I could say who wrote the book. All I know is it’s called Paris Stories. I forgot the author’s name right away. Why should I find it important if this is the only time I’ll read from him? I’m waiting for the book to end, like chewing carrots, waiting to digest it so I can move on with my life.

I wrote about my book list a few weeks ago, a bunch of classics that a woman had compiled in alphabetical order. I’ve enjoyed one of those books, and I’m only in the G’s. Needless to say, I still have a lot to read. But is any of it good?

What happened to my passion for literature? It all seems like one big chore now. But the work impresses me. I can say that much. It’s possible to praise the prose and hate it at the same time. But man, I used to read like a champion in my twenties, but my attention span has gone in the trash. I’m too worried about work. I obsess over it while I’m trying to read the author’s word soup. It’s a collection of short stories. At least I’m able to discern that. Imagine if I was incapable. I would be even more confused.

But anyway, according to my Kindle, I’ll be done with the book in a little over nine hours. I read for twenty-five minutes a day, so if my math is correct, I should be done with it in a couple of weeks. That’s too long. I want to be done with it tomorrow. Maybe I should just give up on the book and move on to the next one. Maybe I should give each book one chapter to have a chance, and if it bores the living snot out of me, I give up and move on to the next one. Life’s too short for me to read stuff that makes me want to fall asleep.