Monday, February 02, 2004

I don't read too much of fiction anymore. I hardly have enough time to read what I ought to be reading. And even that seems to be all that I do. Survey words, analyze them in the vacuousness of my ignorance and disseminate their pre-decided importance. I even talk like them now. In words bigger than my name and syllables with more weight than meaning. And yes, it all comes together every once in a while. And yes, they all are convenient fictions that we conspirators choose to believe.

And I am mixing my stances.
Some like it hot, some like it cold,
Some like it in the pot, nine days old...

Reading a gorgeous piece of fiction right now. Gorgeous gorgeous slutty melancholic fragmented broken macabre life.
Go pick up 'White Noise'...
Sitting in the library, working on a presentation that I am not sure I want to make, mainly because I have forgotten what I started out wanting to say in the first place. Happens to me all the time. This presentation however is an anthropologist's perspective on blogging. How much more convoluted can it get???

Not to worry, four more years and I definitely will end up fooling myself into another fine mess;), right now it's a not-so-fine mess. Sophistication lacking in all its perverse forms. I need another coat of paint (mother-of-pearl finish no less). Understated, elegant and conducive to the soft light that will surely ruin my eyes.
Good morning Monday! How soon do you think you can leave?