Unread Shelf: October 31, 2022

God damn it, I swear I read books. I think there’s only like two or three on here new to this month.

(And, because I feel like it needs an explanation: I really want to read the John Gwynne book, but there are three sequels. I’m waiting until I finish a few more of the series books on the shelf before adding another one.)

It Continues

I’m not sure why the walls look so yellow; I can assure you they are white, although we’re considering repainting because they’re ugly white.

This is what the dining room looks like now:

There is a row of bookshelves behind that row of bookshelves, plus the one against the wall that decided to commit suicide rather than be relocated. In all honesty, I’m surprised we got away with only one going ‘splode on us, given how old and cheap these shelves are.

More changes coming! Stay tuned.

It Begins

We haven’t moved any furniture yet, really– the piano is being moved into the hallway tomorrow, which I am not excited about– but we got a lot of “small and movable” types of things out of the room, and prepped the dining room and the family room to have other stuff moved into them. These books? That completely cover our dining table? These are just the books that were on the shelves wrong. In other words, these are the books that were on top of the bookshelves, or on the bookshelves but in front of the books that were shelved properly. In other words, you would be completely accurate if you looked at the bookshelves in the living room and pronounced them to be completely full. Because they are.

This is why we need entirely new shelves.

Maybe a new house.

We’ll see.

Who wants to come help?

I have to empty every piece of furniture and every book– and there are a couple thousand– out of my living room by Wednesday, so that we can put new carpet down.

Super exciting, in an “I want to die” sort of way.

On editing my brain

I decided tonight that I need to have admin access to my brain.

I mean, that’s not a new thought by any means, but it struck me particularly hard tonight. There are certain things that I know about that I really don’t feel like I need to know about, and I would like to be able to identify unnecessary information that’s stuck in my skullmeats and simply cleanly excise it, and if there was a way to prevent myself from relearning that information in the future– perhaps some sort of memory mute button– that would be great too.

There exists a man who intentionally wishes to be known as Yung Gravy, and I had to retype Yung four fucking times to convince WordPress that yes, that was the word I wanted, which really only adds more pain to this process. He is, supposedly, a musician; I am aware of one of his songs and I do not like it. This is his song:

I’m not watching this video. You can’t make me.

Anyway. Mr. Gravy presumably has fans; you may be one of them. That’s fine! He can have fans. You can be one of them. I just don’t need this man in my brain, and I would like to remove him. You may have my memories of him, if you’d like. That’s fine.

It gets worse. Would you like to know why I am aware of the existence of Yung Gravy? Because it’s not because of his music. No, the rabbit hole goes deeper than that, and I don’t want any of it.

I know Yung Gravy exists because, somehow, I found out that he was dating Addison Rae’s mother.

(Do you know who Addison Rae is? If you don’t, I suggest you stop reading now. This knowledge will not improve your life.)

I do not want to know that Yung Gravy is dating Addison Rae’s mother. I don’t particularly want to know about Addison Rae, although she’s not all that offensive– she’s just pretty and kinda vacuous, and … whatever, right? But I definitely don’t want to know about Addison Rae’s mother, who is far too old to be dating anyone with “Yung” in his name. She has also managed to be the famewhore in the family despite giving birth to someone who dances and prances around in a bikini for her millions of TikTok fans. Addison Rae’s mother is odious in a large number of ways, I do not like her, I definitely do not want her or her stupid Karen haircut in my brain, and while she is exactly the type of person who would divorce her husband and latch onto a third-rate rap artist with a stupid fucking name in hopes it would get her a couple of extra clicks beyond what she’s already siphoning off from her only-four-years-younger-than-her-boyfriend daughter, I don’t need to know about any of those people. At all.

So now I’ve made you aware of all of this, unless you had the good sense to stop reading this post before now– and who would blame you?– and it doesn’t help. All I’ve done is spread the infection, I haven’t cured it. Because you, as one of my readers, are a person possessed of both intellect and rarefied taste, and you don’t need this shit either. So help me. Let’s all go back to grad school and become brain doctors and figure this shit out together. Because after I get rid of Yung Gravy, I need to tear out the Kardashians and Kanye West, and that’s going to require a bit more work.