The First Post EVER on "If anyone cares . . ."

     So, I have a strong doubt this blog will be read by anyone who isn’t me. (Yes, I know, I’m very optimistic) But, as I like to say in some accent I can’t define, “iz all gude!” This blog is a place for me to record the books I’ve read and (who knows?) maybe even provide some form of entertainment for those who happen to lose their way on a journey to their sister’s, “It’s a baby boy!” blog as they take a rest stop here.

P.S.

    It has just occured to me that upon first reading the name of this blog, you might think that the writer is some depressed kid who has found sanctuary in sending their thoughts into the massive void of Internet. I am no such kid. I simply used the name with honesty. Because, honestly, who’s going to waste precious time reading this?

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Bookworms aren’t wiggly creatures you find in soil

      I’m going to come clean and admit (incase you didn’t come up with this by using logical thinking) I’m a bookworm. Yes, I’m one of those people who are sometimes unsociable because I rather find a quiet corner and read as opposed to finding out who is boyfriend/girlfriend with so-and-so and whatever “normal” people talk about. I’m one of those folks who are unusually quiet, happy in their own little world, with a blank look on their face as if a meteor could fall from the sky and land five inches from their toe without them even flinching.

      Okay, I think I’ve made my point that I’m a daydreaming book lover (for those of you that don’t know me very well, I’m also a sarcastically sassy chatterbox and dramatically use my hands and facial expressions when I talk or tell a story. So, please don’t assume that having a conversation with me is like talking to a wall. With that said, back to the post . . .) Why do I like books so much? I don’t know, ha! It’s always been hard for me to explain WHY I love something; I just KNOW I love it. Clear as mud?
     Maybe it’s the adventure, the feeling of being someone I’m probably never going to be for about a half-hour. In a book, you can be a stealthy spy, valiant hero, princes trapped in a dungeon, brilliant detective . . . WHATEVER you want to be, and you can find that life in the pages of a book.

      I’d like to take a second and complain about the dumb mechanical devices that have been made so you can buy “electronic” books online and have them displayed on some screen. It’s REDICULOUS! You’re losing the great feeling of accomplishment when you hold the final sheet of a 500 page novel between your fingers, the AWESOME book smell that flies up and hits you in the face every time you flip a page, and hearing the crisp paper sound as you leaf through the first volume in a series.

      One final discussion (if you call me ranting on and stating my thoughts on a subject a “discussion”) and I’m out of your life (don’t worry, just for a couple hours/days). Do we need to take “good” care of our books? I mean, what’s wrong with seeing a paperback: pages flopped upward, corners worn down from being in a bag too long, and a note scribbled inside – is it a crime? My family (note: my family, not myself) has always been known for keeping their books in Grade-A condition – you could go to a Boarders, slip my family’s novels back on the shelf, and no one would suspect that the books have ever been skimmed through!
      Me, on the other hand, buy books from thrift stores. The novels are either worn-looking from their long journey to the shop, or become worn from the way I handle them. Now, before your imagination begins picturing me with a maniac smile on my face as I tear paperbacks and hard covers into millions of little pieces, “the way I handle them” means I don’t place them delicately back on the shelf, nor on a nice coffee table; nope. When I take a break from reading a book, I either put the novel back into my purse/bag or throw it up on my bunk bed for further reading before I go to bed.
      My question to you: is that wrong? Am I showing disrespect to the author by treating their work in such a way? Should I pick a nice clean spot for the book when I don’t use it? I want to be a writer. And if I were to browse a thrift store, find a paperback I wrote, and open it to discover a touching note from one best friend to another, dirty fingerprints, or tape bordering the cover’s edges so that it doesn’t rip, I wouldn’t feel disrespected, angry, or hurt at what I found. Instead, I’d be happy that I was able to share a moment with someone I’ve never seen or met as we both enjoyed the experience hidden in the pages of my book.
      What do you think? Have I completely missed the point that’s floating around out there? I’ll wait for your answer. In the meantime, where’d I put that book?

Was

    I went to my Grandma’s funeral/memorial today. (Yeah, I know. What a way to start a post, right??) I didn’t know what to expect at the ceremony; whether it’d be boredom from a depressing monologue or discomfort from those mourning.

    Personally, I didn’t sense the feeling of sadness until the service began. But as speaker after speaker reminisced and smiled occasionally as the memories of my Dad’s mom returned, the small room in which we sat – though it had a massive window overlooking a beautiful green hill – faded to gray. Outside the window, the fog crept in followed by a certain emptiness in the air as family and friends, endeavoring to keep their composure, choked back the flow of tears. Several men cleared their throats and the sound of sniffles was heard from behind us.

    I didn’t know my Grandma very well. We would go to her house every year for Christmas but it wasn’t sufficient for a real friendship. I simply knew a couple facts about what her favorite things were (humming birds and teapots on the top of this list). But as I listened to people talk, I heard things about my Grandmother that I never knew of. I learned so many facts about her from this one-day than what I knew from fifteen years on earth!
    A couple of the people that spoke said that my Grandma meant a lot in their life; that she was a comfort to them and was there when they needed her.
     The most hurtful word in that (previous) sentence is the word “was”. “Was” is the word that sunk deepest into the hearts of the audience present at the funeral; the word that made their voices crack and quiver with sadness and grief. Because we know that people “are”, and people “will be”, but a person who “was” has finished their journey in this life and stepped through the exit/entrance door into an eternity of “always is”.