who?
october twenty-seventh | four fifteen post meridiem
Mille poulets sans cheveux
I read in the car now, I do. While I'm driving. I'll keep a book poised, splayed upside down, on the passenger seat, and when I pull up to a stop light I'll grab it, holding it at eye level so as not to instigate a crescendo of horns behind me when the light changes. I've also become very sneaky at stealing moments during the day to read or write at my desk. My productivity has dropped off dramatically, even by the miniscule standards of my position (my boss doesn't seem to have noticed, however; on Friday he said he said, "I hope you'll stay when your [6 month] term is up!" This gave me a shiver so violent I inadvertently knocked a pencil cup off his desk). I briefly considered signing up for NaNoWriMo, but why bother when I'm already being so disciplined and productive? Besides, the last thing I want to write right now is fiction, even erotic fiction, which is what I was considering. I'm worried all this obsession with my personal interests is making me a bit insufferable, though, not to mention ridiculously antisocial. Hmm.
I lied about not being here much; it'd be disingenious to say that my relationship to Diaryland hasn't changed drastically, but I'm going to force myself to update, even if I don't really feel like it. I think it's good for me and, Christ, it's not that painful.
Sometimes shorter is better, though.