Task for the day -- ordering a new copy of A White Merc with Fins, a book that should be required reading for anyone who ever felt the least bit of ennui or foreboding in life somewhere between the ages of, say, 20 and 40. Once I have obtained said new copy of White Merc I will then start a clock running to see how long I can maintain that copy, my last two having both been borrowed with extreme prejudice by friends or acquaintances somewhere along the way. Maybe I'll buy a nice 400 pound gun safe to keep this copy in . . . but the safer odds are on my loaning it to someone who will forget to return it . . .
And barring that, what is one to do with a Monday when you've been working for the last seven days in a row? I'm inclined towards napping for some reason. I seem to recall some point in life when there was fire, frisson, passion, dispute, and all those other emotions that might generally be classified as making life all jazzy and what not. Things seem a bit . . . flatter these days, as if the world (or at least the world I live in) has become entirely too easy and friendly a place. The world should not be entirely too friendly a place, I think, lest one devolve and merge into the herd of sheeple . . .
And barring that, what is one to do with a Monday when you've been working for the last seven days in a row? I'm inclined towards napping for some reason. I seem to recall some point in life when there was fire, frisson, passion, dispute, and all those other emotions that might generally be classified as making life all jazzy and what not. Things seem a bit . . . flatter these days, as if the world (or at least the world I live in) has become entirely too easy and friendly a place. The world should not be entirely too friendly a place, I think, lest one devolve and merge into the herd of sheeple . . .