Approximately 24 hours of my life:

My breasts hurt for a week before I’m about to go on a vacation for a few days, because my PMS is trying to wait exactly for the day I’m planning to be walking around in the nature for most of the day. It reaches the point where it hurts so much I actually spend a whole night dreaming about walking around with bust three times heavier and bigger than it is, which is not as fun as it sounds because it’s also full of pain.

I sigh, say ‘Okay’, and pack half of my small suitcase with sanitary products.

I want to buy some coffee and lunch before getting on the shinkansen, to start my vacation by reading one of my favorite books while seeping on some delicious coffee and listening to writing music.

But the morning crowd pushes me into the station entrance that has no coffee shops, and to reach the only Starbucks (which wouldn’t be my choice for coffee anyway, but it’s the only choice I have) on the station I need to go down to the platform, and then go back up on the other side. I walk the whole length of the platform, trying to find upwards escalator or elevator. No such luck.

I sigh, say ‘Okay’, and drag my suitcase up the the stairs. It’s not too heavy, but my wrist is injured and I have to spend next 20 minutes to try to get it to turn again without feeling like I’m about to throw up every time I move it in a wrong way.

As I’ve finally reached the city, left my suitcase with the hotel staff, and walk the quiet streets that hardly change, I think I should be finally free for next 48 hours.

After a minor incident where I had to pit my bladder against two elderly ladies who were buying great many things and couldn’t let me get to the cashier in my favorite paper shop (it might have been my fault for forgetting to find a toilet in the hotel lobby and holding it in for hours), I finally reach my favorite cafe with soups and banana-hojicha smoothies. Just as I’m trying to get my nerve knots to uncoil, I get a message from work that something has happened, and the co-worker who was supposed to cover in my absence is not there. It’s not voiced out loud, but I’m sure they’d want me to re-schedule my vacation if I was still in Tokyo.

I sigh, say ‘Okay’ and try to pretend like this piece of news is not going to spoil my mood. Or that I won’t start hating myself for feeling someone else’s misfortune is part of a conspiracy against me.

I make it back to the hotel. Try to not feel my disappointment prematurely when they tell me my room is on the 4th floor, because I’ve been thinking about looking out over the city during the sunset the whole time on my walk back. When I check my room my hear sinks. My window faces a solid wall 50 cm away.

I sigh, say ‘Okay’, and think that’s what you get for booking an untried new hotel last minute instead of my favorite place which was unfortunately fully booked. Now, at least, it makes sense why this was so cheap. I can’t bring myself to go ask for a new room.

After getting settled a little, and frowning at the hand towel that looks and smells clean, but feels strangely sticky after I wipe my hands (like they didn’t wash the detergent out completely), I try to unpack. I enter my code in the lock on my suitcase, and it doesn’t open. I look it over, making sure it’s mine, then try every combination I’ve been known to have on this kind of lock. There’re not many of those. I look in my bag in case I still have the ’emergency’ key, which I don’t. I don’t know if it just broke or someone tried unlocking it and got it stuck.

I sigh, say ‘Okay’, and settle down trying every combination possible on the dial for the next hour. When that doesn’t work, I take the ice tongs from the ice bucket and wrench the pull tubs out from the sliders and then from the lock. I get my suitcase open, but I doubt I’ll be able to use the lock ever again. I’m resourceful, because asking strangers for help is always the very last resort. I also kind of didn’t want people thinking I was asking them to open someone else’s suitcase.

I’ve been dreaming about sleeping while breathing in the clear air of this town for more than a year. Not only am I robbed of that, because I can’t open the window in this room, I can hardly sleep all night because the bathroom keeps making these noises like it’s a space ship. Something thuds very loudly at least once every hour, almost making me jump, something seethes, something gurgles, and I wake up every time. I wake up for good at 4 am.

I sigh, say ‘Okay’, and think that at least hardly getting any sleep is nothing new to me these days and I won’t get as hysterical as I would be previously when deprived from my 7-9 hours of sleep on vacation.

I bought my breakfast in a convenience store the day before. I have a salad I need to mix and a soup, and in the morning I realize there were no utensils in the bag. Which you have to be really really unlucky to have happen to you in Japan. They can forget to ask you if you need them and put some inside anyway, but to just forget to put anything… I can’t say this ever happened to me before.

I sigh, say ‘Okay’ and settle to have only a yogurt drink and a piece of cake I have to eat with my hands for breakfast.

I don’t want to list any more.

Believe it or not, this kind of ‘pattern’ has been my life for months. Many of them. Sometimes worse, sometimes better. It’s not really bad enough to feel like being kicked constantly, but it’s that sort of minor annoyance like trying to walk and have something constantly grab at your hair and clothing and stagger you back. Or constantly hear universe say ‘haha, f*ck you!’ in your year. Or trying to take a deep breath and smile just to have your face slapped for your efforts, every time.

I’m just so…fluffing tired.

Accidentally watched movie ‘Manhunt’ (2017) on TV. It’s been a while since I’ve seen so much money wasted on something so stupid and cheesy. And so many actually very talented and renowned Japanese actors made look like complete trash.

Even when I thought I was hiding from the society for the weekend, it still found a way to remind me of how senseless, unreasonable, and horrifying it is.

Night Play by Sherrilyn Kenyon

Night Play (Dark-Hunter, #6; Were-Hunter, #2)

Night Play by Sherrilyn Kenyon

My rating: 1 of 5 stars

Unbearably clichéd and cheesy work that is focused on female self-image issues more than on anything else.
DNFed. I actually almost DNFed it after the very first chapter. But then I decided to make myself see if I’d get to any actual plot, made it about 40% in, and gave up.
After reading the Prologue, I thought it might actually be good. With the weres introduced and the dark back-story. But then in the chapter 1 we get introduced to the heroine…who is crying over an email where an abusive boyfriend who used her and treated her like shit all the time and broke up with her, and she ‘though she would marry him’. This alone could be enough to close this book forever for me. But there’s more.
Now I’m going to rant.
I’ve picked up a lot of ridiculous ‘romance’ novels by mistake recently, but nothing quite like this. I can even forgive the constant ‘insta-love’, because it often comes with the werewolf territory, but… They meet, he buys her a necklace, she cries, they have sex. (The end.) …He ‘doesn’t have an ounce of fat of his body’, she’s ‘solid size 18’; he keeps thinking how all other females he knew were aggressive and demanding bitches (literally) and how she is all so soft and kind, she keeps thinking about her ‘boyfriend’ who couldn’t stand looking at her with lights on while the main character is all over her; he is supposed to be a wolf-born shifter, who had lived his all life in a pack until 18 months ago and doesn’t even know how to date humans, and a hunted outcast without his own home and taking care of a comatose brother, but he also has a bank manager on speed dial who apparently his personal account manager, and he has his own table in the ‘super expensive’ restaurant where everyone knows him and he is ‘human enough’ to have that status in the society and throw money around; she is supposed to be spirited and independent and not take shit from anyone…while she let an abusive size-shaming shithead walk all over her for years and wanted to marry him. The 40% of this book that I did read, were so full of the worst kinds of ridiculous clichés I thought my eyes were going to pop out. These characters just don’t work. They contradict themselves constantly. And more importantly, there is something very disturbing about how both men and women are treated in this.

A shame, since I thought some ideas of the series were interesting, but this is going to be a very big NOPE for me.



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I kind of hate most of ‘how to’ books and blog posts.

The only kinds of ‘how to’s I can accept are the the technical manuals, as in ‘how to correctly assemble a bookshelf/repair your appliance and not brain yourself’ kind of things.

The ‘how to’s that talk about art and living in general make me nauseous.

I think, compared to my dislike towards people who need to have someone to tell them how to live or write, I despise those who are all too happy to tell others how they should live or create things even more.

When you say ‘curse of the second novel’, many people think about the curse of the second published novel of an author. I, personally, find it much more applicable to the ‘second novel of a series’… It’s harder to find an exception, really.


Finally watching Oscars. I love Queen, but…I’m sorry, I really can’t stand Adam Lambert. It’s beyond me why people let him take this place… Hell, I know a small Czech cover band vocalist who would do 3 times better job

I haven’t really considered before how big of a stone the saying ‘Don’t judge book by its cover’ was, aiming for publishers and marketers.

I think it’s actually very difficult to find a book, unless it’s a famous international bestseller with a few dozen of editions, where a cover would match the content. (And even then, if you look at the very first cover it was published under, it will probably make you shake your head. Like ‘Harry Potter’ covers… they are not bad, but after the 3rd one, I do believe they became too childish for the content.)

Just in these two months, I’ve seen good quality fantasy hidden behind badly photoshoped cheesy jackets with half-naked models that made me cringe; or on contrary, picked up something for it’s beautiful and sophisticated cover just to find tasteless PWP inside. It’s almost like you need to go from the contrary each time time try to chose a book. For example, a lot of YA books get beautiful hardcover editions and sprayed edges, because of the bookstagram movement that for some reason decided to focus on YA, but I’ve found out (after getting caught by the pretty editions a few times, I do love pretty books) most of them have hardly anything worth finding inside. And then, the best urban fantasy usually comes in cheap mass-marked editions with covers that are more likely to scare people off with their trashiness, and make me happy that in our country there’s a big culture of personal book covers to put on your books when reading outside…