too long

It turns out you can't read when you're crocheting, or sewing, or embroidering, or crocheting something onto something that's embroidered, or sewing something that's crocheted or embroidering something you've sewn out of crochet.

I made most of my holiday presents this year, and so I have not been reading at all. At all! Because all my energy went towards keeping myself from breaking into full-body sobs and raking my all-too-tender flesh with my fingernails as I raced feverishly towards completion of a shitload of gifts my whole family hated.

Also, I'm still not done with the crocheting, the sewing, the embroidering, and the crocheting of the sewn embroidery and you know, etcetera. Don't you point at that calendar. Don't you dare.

So I've been reading Middlemarch since the middle of March. Ha! That was a pun. Or play on words! Paronomasia, if you will. And you should.

One of the things I'd like to do in ought five, besides finish all the holiday giving I have to do before ought six, is keep track of what I've been reading, and to be reading again - reading is what I do, and it is so very fucking weird to realize I haven't sat down for an extended reading in bed session in one million, billion years. That's a conservative estimate.

So the bookblog's back. And Middlemarch, you better watch your back. That might have been another play on words kind of thing. Or not. I'm a little rusty.