The mystery book-sender strikes again; as in the sender is a mystery, not the genre of books which are nothing like whodunits apart from the fact that I have no idea whodunit. Or keeps doing it. The genre is as clear as the self-improvement on their shrouded face, “Let me help you!” They scream. “I’m too nervous to come out with it, so I’m going to send you nudges for do-at-home growth that I’m sure you’ll thank me for one day. If I ever reveal myself. Which I won’t because by the time you’ve reached enlightenment my smugness won’t fit out the door.” They’re out there somewhere, this person convinced they’ve got my answers. They’ve been sending me books for years. The latest is by John O’Donohue, To Bless The Space Between Us, A Book Of Blessings which I’m sure is delightful and good on you John for getting it together but I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t go on Amazon and spend $22 on a piece of non-fiction which will remind me in random open-anywhere nuggets to be grateful. How do you know I’m not grateful already Messrs Know-It-All Fixer? And why pick on me? It’s the latest in a long line of unordered wellness packages delivered with no note and no sign of where they’ve come from. Given the many hundreds of people who’ve passed through these doors and lived on this land, narrowing it down to those who know my address won’t quicken the search. One things for sure though, this doggedly determined person is certain that I need help. Maybe it’s the window cleaner. Maybe it’s any one of the faux spiritual smilers who’ve bowed their way across my kitchen. Maybe it’s someone I’ve never met who’s seen me lose my shit in the frozen peas aisle and decided to make me their project. “Expense be damned! I’m going to send this woman religiously biased tomes on How To Be A Better Person and I’m going to keep sending them to her until -” Until what? I ascend through a shower of hail Mary’s? My star descends from the heavens? I turn blue or purple or gold or stop losing my shit in the frozen peas aisle? Maybe I should actually read one of them one day, there’s enough to pick from piling up on my bookshelf in the bathroom and taking up valuable space. Perhaps I’ll find some clue hidden between Daily Meditations and Breath Exercises. Maybe one day I’ll be grateful for the hours of mystery my mystery book-sender has given me. I’m being facetious, you know I am, of course they’re sweet and you’re sweet and whoever you are, bless this space between us.
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Dear Universe, I didn't order this book. FYI, here's a list of books I do want you to send me.
lmfao that’s incredible; if this happened to me I’d probably wind up reading them all and becoming whatever they wanted me to be?! i’m impressionable when things are weird / chancy