I Joined a Book Club to Feel Something

Boston's a big city, man.

It's one of those cities that feels really cool in theory- I know it did for me. I remember announcing to my family that I was moving to Beantown, feeling equal parts fear and excitement.

The history! The sports! The art. I was so excited for the art.

But then your car gets cut off for the hundredth time, and you don't have Iowa plates to offer some sort of explanation for your driving anymore.

Then you experience a Market Basket, and you learn that a lot of forty-something year old men have a whole lot of audacity.

You foster a cat, because why not. Maybe that'll be an adventure.

Your cat shits in your roommate's shower and makes you late for your first work meeting.

You decide to stop fostering cats.

Universal experiences, you know.

So anyway, I'm supposed to be talking about book clubs.

It's interesting to observe how we make ourselves feel at home when the reality is that we're 20+ hours away from it.

I planted a tomato garden to be like my dad. A squirrel ate all of my dirt for some reason, but I still had a good gig going for awhile.

I write almost every day. I'll have to tell you about that.

I have a bunch of empty Frito Lay boxes that I paint on pretty often. I don't think I'm really supposed to do that though, so don't tell them.

And I joined a book club.

This book club is pink and sparkly.

This book club is the type to enjoy red wine and glitter and Hallmark movies.

It feels sacreligious to my brand to be a part of this book club.

That was sarcastic.

But actually, when I thought of the "fine art of greater Boston," I didn't imagine myself indulging in a Twilight knockoff with a group of women in their thirties.

It's pretty epic though. I won't even lie to you.

Weird to see what people do to try to feel at home.

Weird to see what ends up achieving that.

So book club meets tomorrow. I'm giving this novel a 2/5 stars.

It's good to be here.