second night in a row reading the time traveler’s wife well into the wee hours of the night. i love love stories like this, realistic and fantastical all at the same time. i only have 100 pages left to go, but my contacts are drying up, my head is feeling heavy, and tomorrow will be a fairly unproductive day if i wake up past noon again.
loveeeee. i love this book. whenever i get into a book, life seems to have more color in it. i don’t know why.

my bedroom is a museum. it tries to look updated, all clean and simple and spotless, but look closer; the artifacts are all there, peeking out under piles of paper, tucked away in drawers, stashed in storage bins. on my desk, under the nylon magazine, is a love letter, scribbled pencil on ripped out looseleaf, circa high school years. there are empty red envelopes stuffed in a letter holder from chinese new years past. a jumble of diaries sits under my nightstand, all just partially filled, some dated pre-2000. clothes that don’t fit or slipped out of fashion eons ago hang in my closet. my first dance record from my techno phase in middle school is stacked on my cd rack. the stuffed animal on my bed is from a childhood crush. an essay i wrote with my 13-year-old wisdom is the first document in my desk drawer. a row of yearbooks line my bookshelf.

i’m home.