when you’re better at reading than math

So apparently I’ve read 50 books so far this year. Which means I met my 2020 goal for number of books read. I didn’t realize I had done it until today, 11 days after finishing my 50th book. I can’t add, I guess.

I keep track of everything I’ve read in Goodreads. (Which makes it really sad that I didn’t know I had met my goal of 50 because they do all the counting for you.) At the end of the year they’ll tally your stats for you, how many pages, how many books, how many words, etc. I’m bad at guessing, so I won’t, but last year I read 50 books, and with 122 days left in 2020 (wt actual f), it’s probably fair to assume I’ll read a few more books. I wish I had a penny for every page I read. I’d be able to buy a new Kindle with change left over. But thanks to 2020’s SUCH FUN economic fuck up, I can’t have nice things.

Speaking of SUCH FUN fuck ups, when I read that there are 122 days left in 2020 I felt a piece of me die inside. I don’t know why that number has hit me so strongly, but when I read it, time felt endless and at the same time fleeting. I’ve thought THIS [all of it] was going to end so many times and, fuck me running, it just hasn’t. It’s kept going. I try to stay positive, but 122 days?? All the things that need to happen in 122 days: a Covid vaccine, a wide-scale vaccination program once the vaccine is developed, teaching in-person AND remotely at the same time without wanting to kill myself, THE ELECTION, hoping for more work so that we can afford to have Christmas.

What kind of future is left for us? I can’t even think about it. I’m glad I don’t have kids, because I’m not sure we’re leaving them anything worth living for. You’re supposed to ask for help when you need it, but the kind of help we need can’t be asked of anyone but ourselves. But we can’t help anyone. Especially not ourselves.

2020. 50 books. 122 days. All the things. Jesus take the wheel.