People, I am bored.
There's way more to it than that, of course, but boredom is a very bad thing for me. Boredom added to, well - this - is extra doubly bad. My work hours have been reduced to a tiny amount. Netflix perusal is often a frustration. There is only so much yoga or running or avoiding running or yoga one can do. The garden is under snow. The seeds have been ordered. Cakes have been baked and delivered. Monthly cooking sessions are scheduled with Ronald McDonald House. Honestly, at this point, nothing holds much meaning for me. Thinking of more things to do or something new to learn - it's just not happening.
I stare at the bookshelves and feel immensely - bored. I have a stack of non-fiction from the library, but I am already so far down I can't convince myself to care enough to open one up. That is serious apathy. I'm thinking maybe fiction would help. I've read through my step-son's suggestions at least once. So - lay 'em on me: I need some good fiction suggestions.
Um. Keep in mind I am not a fan of sudden, unexpected death with resultant "transformation" endings. If you love a book that has that element, at least let me know it's in there.
And, an odd obscure fact for today, Friday the 13th: both friday (named for freya, a correlate of the goddess Venus) and the number 13 (for the 13 lunar months in a year) were once considered sacred and holy. As with so many formerly sacred things, they were eventually deemed evil or unlucky. Apparently, back in the day, friday the 13th was considered especially lucky, and you were meant to celebrate venus by making love all day. Over here, boredom and sadness overtook me and I napped most of the day. Not exactly a venus celebration, but least I was in bed.