I am a McJob working, decade-blending poorochondriac ready to blame ozmosis for my inevitable mid-twenties breakdown. Crap.
I'm not so sure that it was a good idea for me to start reading Douglas Coupland's Generation X. It's hitting a little too close to home for my comfort. At least with Palahniuk I can't see mirror images of myself in the characters because they're hidden behind ridiculously unlikely premises. Speaking of which, does somebody have my copy of Fight Club? I've been looking everywhere for it, and I fear that I may have lent it out to somebody and forgotten about it.
Now I'm going to try falling asleep, worrying about my architectural indegestion and wether or not I'm able to make Falafel without a deep-fryer. I was so much happier with my stale perspectives and banal fears. What happened to the days when I could be perfectly content boring you all with my cleaning activities?
1 Comments:
Tay, hon, go put the book in the freezer. You'll feel better after a week or so.
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