But here's the thing. When I get the time to sit down and relax, I don't want to read a self-help book. I want to get lost in a story of love and hate and war and power and first kisses and last kisses and relationships and people who are just as or more screwed up than me. I want to lose myself in other people's problems, not my own.
I actually did crack this book last Friday. I read probably the first ten to fifteen pages. Of course, it's not that bad. It's actually pretty entertaining. But reading a self-help book to me is like exercising. I don't want to do it and I whine and complain to myself how I don't want to do it and I'd rather be doing anything else, but when I finally do it, I like it and I'm glad I did it. Unfortunately, it's easier for me to find the motivation to get on the treadmill than it is to open a self-help book.
I don't know if I'll ever finish this book. My mom is coming this week and I either need to force myself to read it or just hand it back with a mumbled, "yeah, it was great."
Okay, maybe I need the book after all.