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Bills are paid, and we have gone to the grocery store, so we're in for the next few days, which is good, because it's apparently asshole season. I got cut off half a dozen times by people who either never bothered to look where they were going, or whose self-esteem is mysteriously tied to whether or not they get ahead of the woman in the wheelchair and thereby speed up in order to cross in front of me. And boy, do they get snitty when you don't deferentially stop to let them pass. You saw me coming at speed. You chose to go anyway. Eat me.
My teeth are still a pain in the ass. I'm at a loss. I went in for a small cavity, and ever since, it's been a cascade of sensitivity and discomfort in teeth that, by his own admission, are fine. I'm trying not to rue my fit of responsibility and proactivity, but it's hard going when teeth that were previously untroubled are constantly complaining. I'm beginning to wonder if my grinding hasn't gotten worse and contributed to my pain.
In lighter news, I finished London: A Biography by Peter Ackroyd. His prose is lovely and evocative, and at first, it carried me through the rhapsodies of his turgid boner for the titular city on the soaring, fluttering wings of a spring sparrow. Alas, like most writers, he fell in love with the clacking of his keyboard, and what was refreshing and exciting became droning and repetitive and strained. The same metaphors, the same airy musings about London's mystery, and by the time he got to the Blitz, he was so drunk on the idea of London as a living organism, he went into transports of absurdity with the supposition that the houses were shabby and neglected because London, the organism, was suffering.
No. No, my good sir. Please cancel that first-class flight to Fancytown. The houses were shabby and dispirited during the Blitz because THERE WAS A WAR ON. The people were tired and hungry and frightened, and when your house might get blown to shit by a bomb while you're on the jakes, you stop giving a damn about the status of your paint and wallpaper. You save your energy for other things, like running and screaming or trying to stave off the enemy with a pitchfork, a teapot, or a tin of stale biscuits. You know this. Stop being a tit.
It's done and dusted, and now I'm on to As the Crow Flies, Walt Longmire #8 by Craig Johnson.
My teeth are still a pain in the ass. I'm at a loss. I went in for a small cavity, and ever since, it's been a cascade of sensitivity and discomfort in teeth that, by his own admission, are fine. I'm trying not to rue my fit of responsibility and proactivity, but it's hard going when teeth that were previously untroubled are constantly complaining. I'm beginning to wonder if my grinding hasn't gotten worse and contributed to my pain.
In lighter news, I finished London: A Biography by Peter Ackroyd. His prose is lovely and evocative, and at first, it carried me through the rhapsodies of his turgid boner for the titular city on the soaring, fluttering wings of a spring sparrow. Alas, like most writers, he fell in love with the clacking of his keyboard, and what was refreshing and exciting became droning and repetitive and strained. The same metaphors, the same airy musings about London's mystery, and by the time he got to the Blitz, he was so drunk on the idea of London as a living organism, he went into transports of absurdity with the supposition that the houses were shabby and neglected because London, the organism, was suffering.
No. No, my good sir. Please cancel that first-class flight to Fancytown. The houses were shabby and dispirited during the Blitz because THERE WAS A WAR ON. The people were tired and hungry and frightened, and when your house might get blown to shit by a bomb while you're on the jakes, you stop giving a damn about the status of your paint and wallpaper. You save your energy for other things, like running and screaming or trying to stave off the enemy with a pitchfork, a teapot, or a tin of stale biscuits. You know this. Stop being a tit.
It's done and dusted, and now I'm on to As the Crow Flies, Walt Longmire #8 by Craig Johnson.
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