Hey there, wayfarers. I trust your weekends are moving along swimmingly, no? Did you get any good presents? My parents were both bitten by the kindess bug this year, as I have received for all my good deeds both a thermal shirt and an email telling me to find a job! How indelibly sweet they are, those sexagenarians! In return, I gave them nothing. Bupkis. Zilch. My mother got her birthday present last week (and, seriously, who needs two presents in the same month?), and my father simply does not deserve one, because his birthday present (which I brought home with me from my trip this summer) is still sitting on the coffeetable in his living room. It’s still in the bag, undisturbed. Good thing it wasn’t a puppy.
In semi-related news (related only in that it’s about me, which I guess encompasses just about everything I’ve ever written in this space), I gifted myself two items this weekend, with an opportunity for a third still waiting–in limbo, as it were–in the wings (whatever that means). I purchased a copy of Mogwai’s Young Team on vinyl (which should sound nice and blow everyone out of the house), as well as Can’s Tago Mago on vinyl (which should sound great when I’m in one of those… you know, states. I’m still waiting on word of a fantastic drum set that may soon be mine.
I’m taking the week off from writing the book because I’m tired and unmotivated. Don’t ask how it’s going, I’m not going to grace you with a response. And, even if I did, my excellent verbiage would be so profound, so awesome and powerful, your eardrums would tremble–nay, disintegrate–beneath my mighty tenor…
…kind of like what my heart does when I look at someone who is ugly.
Wake up, Zoya.
