I think there’s a goat in our house,” my sister says, making no attempt to get up as she turns her head slightly to listen to the strange noises coming from down the hall. She’s wrong; I’m certain. Not because there couldn’t be a goat in the house, but because this isn’t our house anymore. It’s the home we grew up in, and still feels warm and familiar, but I’ve managed to disassociate myself from being responsible for shooing errant goats out of a home I haven’t lived in for more than a decade.
Another victim of the reading slump.
I like Jenny Lawson’s blog posts – well, some more than others – but I got annoyed with the book. While her exaggerated style woks fine for me in short bursts, a whole book of it just drove me nuts.
I don’t deal well with people who make everything into a drama and who need to talk about everything as if it needed amplification, and the narrative style in this book was all about the dramatic exaggeration.