My mother visited the other week and this was the conversation:
Melinda: Where did you get this book?
Me (not looking at her because I was picking something up): You gave it to me. I only read books that you give me.
Melinda: I don't think I gave this to you.
Me: Where did you find it?
Melinda: On your bookshelf.
Me: You had to have given it to me.
Time passes and I walk by my mom reading this book:
Me: Oh, (laughing). Ellen (my Mother-In-Law) bought that for me and left it on my nightstand because I had never read anything from Ann Patchett before.
Melinda: I knew this wasn't my book!
My mom read it. So then I read it. What is with me? It is so weird, I seem to only read books that my mother introduces to me (now adding a Mother-In-Law into this equation).
I don't know who to blame for this? Which motherly figure gets the blame for putting me through that book. I hate fiction. I hate fiction because it is really hard to suspend disbelief in the beginning and then, when I am attached to these damn characters, I find myself sobbing on the toilet while reading it. That isn't nice. I don't like sobbing through books. You guys are so damn pulled together. You have to remember that I am a sensitive soul and can't manage myself through these types of reads.
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