This happened to me last night and I think I must have taken every book off my bookshelf only to read 1.5 pages and then throw it at the end of my bed with a really kind of pathetic disgust. Nothing was what I wanted. I've been reading a psychological thriller recently that has honestly really freaked me out and though I loved it, I really needed something that I could trust. I know that sounds strange but to me opening up a book is putting all my trust into it, hoping it will in a sense take care of me and not only be worth my time, but won't suddenly scare me in a way I don't want it to, etc. Point is, that book didn't exist on my shelf last night, or at least I don't think it did.
I ended up picking up this little diddy and sticking with it until I fell asleep. It's a novel about birds, and honestly I can't remember anything beyond that. Sad, really. But true. I guess I didn't read very much...maybe it will be that book.
