I’m channel surfing and I stumbled on Survivor. A show I loved until about four years ago. I always try to watch, but can’t. Even with all the Pittsburgher’s in it and even though they tend to win, a lot, I can’t do more than take a peek.
So, I did tonight and the girls are so freaking skinny that I can’t look at them for prolonged periods of time without cringing away. And that’s saying a lot. You have to be practically invisible to make me think you’re too skinny, yet they looked pained–collarbones protruding through their skin. That gets me more than anything.
Anyway, I’m reading “A Million Little Pieces” by James Frey and I like it. It’s sparse and written without quotation marks and other conventions of dialogue, but its good. I don’t know if he just writes that way or if he had to craft it that way, but I can’t imagine doing it. I can learn a few things about not overwriting, though, that’s for sure.
Anyway, its his memoir about his downward spiral into drugs and six weeks of rehab. Its fascinating, the grittiness of it, his complete absence of will to live…and at the part I’m at, his slow return to the living.
It was an Oprah book, which normally would make me steer clear because I don’t need any reasons to be depressed, but I read something that said it was hopeful…so far…not so hopeful…but compelling for sure.
I’m watching the OC right now. Makes me totally yearn for the days of 90210. God, those guys were innocent.