trainspotting

this book is messing me up and i feel it slowly taking over my brain like the confident virus that it is. i see the ridiculousness as i filter my own life through the book, referring to dime bags of parmesan cheese and arranging my granola in lines on the desk, and as i type this out it comes through my head in a scottish accent. how many times now have i decided to stop reading and to return it to the shelf, decided that there cant be any good in knowing, that some things should be kept under a bucket in the corner. why do i pick it up again and again, whaen ah ken thit it doesnae help us but jist brings us doon. who gets to decide the difference between books and heroin.