I had something to say, O Best Beloved, but I forgot. Surely the proper procedure is to stop typing, but when I get a notion to type, I can’t help myself. Idle hands take up the devil’s work. It’s either this or knitting the scarf I just can’t finish. I feel like Christo whenever I pick it up.
Have you called your senator to whimper about the Supreme Court yet today? I normally prefer to keep my whimpering to the comfort of my own duvet, but we do what we can. This is a remarkably angst-free January, all serotonin levels, wiretapping, construction projects, and parasites considered. I think I’ve discovered that eating every twelve minutes is the solution to my myriad personal shortcomings. Well, at least I feel better about them. Not saying it actually fixes them. Perhaps it was never existentialism: I just wasn’t eating enough oatmeal. This looks like it could be Dick Cheney’s problem as well. Fiber, mon petit robot.