n. the realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore—that although you thought you were following the arc of the story, you keep finding yourself immersed in passages you don’t understand, that don’t even seem to belong in the same genre—which requires you to go back and reread the chapters that you had originally skimmed through to get to the good parts, only to learn that all along you were supposed to choose your own adventure.
Wait, can we all just take a pre-Castle moment to see that the small cut on my knee that I got yesterday at my games tagging a girl out at second turned into this while I was wearing jeans today?
I collect books the way my friends collect designer handbags. Sometimes, I just like to know I have them and actually reading them is beside the point. Not that I don’t eventually end up reading them. I do. But the mere act of buying them makes me happy.
― Jennifer Kaufman & Karen Mack, Literacy and Longing in LA (via whimsicalimpertinence)