You’re My Inspiration

SO, here’s the deal. I feel like I haven’t read a book that’s actually stuck with me in a long time.

When I was younger, I used to read silly young adult fantasy novels, and I would become so involved in the character’s lives and the story that I could sit and read for hours, and when I reached the end of the book, I truly felt sad when there was nothing left for me to read. I would then start the book again from the beginning and reread the entire thing.

But lately, I haven’t really found anything that’s sparked my interest. I don’t know if it’s because my tastes are different now that I’m older or because I am just not looking at the right kind of books. I just can’t seem to get back into reading. Which, as a hopeful author, seems a right shame. I need some sort of inspiration, and I’m not finding it anywhere.

The last book I finished was Are You There Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea by Chelsea Handler, and while it was certainly entertaining, it’s not something I’m going to pick up again in a hurry. I’m trying to struggle through Relic by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child right now, and I can’t seem to make any headway. I’ll finish a chapter, and have to put the book down right away.

I don’t know if what I’m doing right now is venting my frustrations or looking for help. I need a shove into the right bookcase, so that I can start doing what I love best once again: reading and writing. Some English major I’m turning out to be.

Salad

Today I thought I would get a salad for lunch.
I got my plastic container, filled it with a delicious spring mix type of salad. Threw on some tomatoes, red onions, the tiniest bit of cheese, and some bacon bits.

And then I dumped two packets of Hidden Valley’s honey mustard dressing on the mess, and realized that I probably could have gone to McDonald’s instead.

Balloons

At the bank I work at, my coworkers threw me a little party for my birthday. We had cake and ice cream, and a friend of mine thought it would be funny to give me an obnoxious hat to wear and balloons to decorate my teller station.

Needless to say, these balloons proved to be quite the nuisance. Little kids kept tugging at them when their parents would bring them to my window, I would bump into them if I moved even the smallest amount, and — worst of all — none of the colors went well together, so I had to deal with the horrible color scheme all day. Orange, pink, purple, baby blue, and green? Really? REALLY?! Couldn’t we have just stuck with maybe the pink, purple, and blue? A tired and true, combination, I know, but pleasing to the eye! The work place is not the most ideal location for your ventures into modern art, please. Especially at my teller station, Miss OCD in the flesh, ladies and gentlemen!

And after having to suffer through six hours of these wretched balloons (we aren’t open the entire day on Saturdays), they told me that I had to take them home. Why, for the love of God, couldn’t I just pop them and throw them away? Give them to some small child who still had that obsessive fascination for anything they could possibly choke on? Because they were mine, they tell me, for my birthday.

So, not wanting to hurt anyone’s feelings, I begrudingly shoved the balloons into the backseat of my car, knowing the drive home was not going to be pleasant. I’m not one for using the AC, especially with gas prices as they are, so I crack the windows. I think I could have handled this if I didn’t have to get on the highway to get home. The wind picked the balloons up, buffeting them around the backseat, hitting me in the head, causing my hair to become staticky, and blocking my line of vision every time I wanted to switch lanes or basically do any driving at all. Barreling down the highway at 75 mph, I felt like I might die at any second, but I couldn’t just roll down the windows and let the balloons fly out. No, because then people might give me dirty looks, or copy down my plates and report me to overly enthusiastic environmentalists that might give me phone calls later on.

So after an excruciatingly long drive home, I finally pull into my driveway, ready to be rid of these horrible, horrible inflated objects. I grab them roughly by the strings, give them a shake, and say, “Good bye and good riddance!” I let go of the strings.

And suddenly, I have a change of heart. I grab wildly for the balloons that I have just released into the wild, but the strings just barely graze my finger tips, and suddenly the balloons are too far out of my reach, and they’re floating up and up and up, probably to be sucked up by a plane engine, or to become the death of some small, stupid bird. And for some reason, I feel incredibly sad that I could have done something so callous, so insensitive. Those poor balloons. What did they ever do to me?

Nothing. And I just let them go. I wiped away the single tear that had somehow managed to escape my eye.

And then I remembered that I had a movie date, so I promptly forgot about the balloons and went inside to get ready. The rest of my birthday was absolutely wonderful.

And if anyone finds any horribly mismatched balloons, looking a little lost and lonely, let me know. I’d love to apologize.