I've got this gigantic stack of books I'm trying to get through, including Lenin, Stalin, and Hitler: The Age of Social Catastrophe (which I originally admired for the subtitle - isn't this the NewAge of Social Catastrophe?) so I'm finding myself haphazardly cramming my "life" in between massive bouts of reading. This makes for a weird occurrence: my non-reading time becomes the period of escape; a vacation when I have time just to think. Got to go to work? No problem. Anything to get me away from these seductive tomes. Sorry babies, Daddy loves ya, but duty calls - especially if it's band rehearsal.
Reading on the internet is different. There's just too much stuff, especially with links, to ever just up-and-leave. She loudly lies ("You don't have a 'life'!") and is always trying to suggest that, with her many other available opinions, my own thoughts can't even be individualized. But I'm smarter than that bitch. (Shit, I was a crack smoker.) I leave anyway. Back,...to,..those many books,..Honestly, it's almost like that god damned nightmare dream of the martyrs: hoping I'll be returned to earth, only to be killed again.
But, I guess, I'm scratching some kind of an itch and that's always satisfying. More so than with my writing because, knowing my limitations, it's always screaming, "Idiot, get a thesaurus!" - another damn book - starting to see the problem? It's like channeling the devil - or at least another wife - and no, I won't be having any more of that.
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