be vewwwy qwiet. i'm supposed to be working this open house event we're having, but instead i've ducked out and i'm hiding in my office, hammering out some long-overdue responses to month-old email. among those missives was a new one from my boyfiend complaining of some chick's use of the adjective "fiendish" on her website, as though his/our own fiendishness were some birthright upon which she's impinging. if, however, he'd gone so far as to look here, he might have been less upset. i mean, at least she's got a pretty good sense of humor....
Okay, enough hiding. If they want me, they'll find me, whether I'm under the desk or not....
Recurring concern: I'm not reading enough. I used to read all the time--E. F. Benson, Christoper Durang, Mark Leyner, and of course the scrumpdelicious E. M. Delafield. These days, though, it takes me a week to finish one of Tennessee Williams' shortest stories. Yeah, I guess I've gone through phases like this before, but they usually don't last as long as this }:>(
So, am I going through a gradual process of "dumbening"? Is the drug abuse of my youth finally catching up with me? Haven't they just created a means of regenerating lost brain cells? Should I sign up? Or is it just that I've been too busy? Or that it's too hot? Or maybe I'm allergic to paper.... Whatever the reason, I feel like a waste. Anyone wanna cheer me up?
