A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal. -Oscar Wilde

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

New year, new post.

Oh Baltimore, you funny little big city. With your pissing contest over a three letter word and painting yourself purple and dead fish. Wait, dead fish? Yep. Dead fish. Ew. Well, I guess that's one to remind me of home.

Being sick and all, I've spent an inordinate amount of time on my couch the past few days. The closest books within reach of said couch are Mandarin language instruction books and depressing Russian books (random history and Solzhenitsyn-- One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich and The Gulag Archipelago). (I've mentioned before that I met a guy once who actually claimed Solzhenitsyn was his favorite author. That still cracks me up. I mean, come on. Could you try to make it a little less obvious that you're a pretentious pompous ass overeager to be perceived as a politically aware intellectual?). Anyway, nothing light and non-challenging for my poor addled brain, so I watched far more television than I'm used to. Which? Really adds to the feeling of unreality brought on by high quality decongestants and a few days off from work. But now I'm back to work and still trying to shake this annoyingly persistent bug. Damn reality. And my poor cube neighbors that get to hear me hacking away.

Speaking of work, I had one of those days yesterday. It was a matryoshka doll of badness kind of day. That would be the opposite of the Mary Tyler Moore Moment day (which inspired the MTMM tag on this a-here blog)-- you know, the times you're just so freaking chipper that you want to throw your hat in the air while a disembodied voice from above intones that you're going to make it after all. Yesterday: not one of those days. Just one bad thing inside another, like evil nesting dolls. I actually originally coined the term to describe a situation at work where there were so many nuances and layers of wrongness that contributed to a bad situation, so I think I'm entitled to strain that metaphor to the breaking point. Thankfully, things are looking a little better. For the time being.

If only I could stop coughing. Consumptive authoresses/ heroines are so 19th century.

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