Forget the Pumpkin Spice

Autumn is in the air. At last. 

Not that this summer was terrible, as far as summers go, but it will still summer. Hot, humid, summer. 

The summer months and I don’t get along, so when the temperatures start dropping into the 50s at night, pumpkin spice everything returns to the stores, and the trendy girls put their scarves on again, I do a mental happy dance. It means my sluggish mind wakes back up from its humidity-induced torpor and I can go back outside without melting. 

Really, I should move to Scandinavia. Or Minnesota, or some other northern place. I can do cold. Cold’s not a problem. You can gets coats and scarves and hats to deal with cold. When it’s hot, there is only so much clothing you can peel off before they arrest you.

I counted the number of books I’ve read this year. I’m up to twenty-eight, which is a lot more than the the average American reads (somewhere around 12), but far fewer than what I read last year, while I was doing the 100 book challenge. But then, I did move and get hit with a sort of reading malaise in May, where I just couldn’t find anything that seemed compelling. That has since worn off with, of all things, crime novels set in the Victorian era. I finished up Caleb Carr’s The Alienist a few days ago and I’m about a third of the way through Lindsay Fay’s The Gods of Gotham. I also read Gregory Harris’s novel, The Arnifour Affair, which wasn’t the most historically accurate book I’ve ever read, but it was fun, and sometimes that’s all you need out of a book.

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