The Most Unhelpful Books Ever

So lately I’ve been reading self-help books. Yeah, for real. I hate self-help books. I’m notorious for wanting to burn them all, and then write an anti-self-help book. But Lincoln is almost a year old, and as I find myself emerging into the bright light of reality, things in my life look a little…neglected. So I’ve decided that I would

But I didn’t know how. So I’m reading these books about it.

Let me tell you how much I hate self-help books.

I read these books, and realize how I’ve been doing everything wrong, and realize how perfect everything will be if I just start doing everything right, and then I try to do everything  right, and everything is still pretty much the same.

Yeah, I realize I have to give it more than 24 hours of effort. But I have no follow-through, because see, I’m a sanguine with just enough melancholic thrown in to feel really depressed about that.

So then after the inevitable 24 hours of failure, I pick up the book again, and instead of being inspired I find myself just marinating in all the horror stories used as illustrations to scare people away from being selfish piles of self-centerdness and thinking, “behold your future, self.”

Then I mostly sit on the couch all day until I move to the chair, so I can look out the window at the grey, oppressive sky and wallow in the pathetic fallacy.

Maybe later I’ll make chocolate chip cookies while feeling sorry for myself. Or burn these stupid books.