I was talking to someone about, um, innovative blog ideas tonight, and then I realized there’s already a pile of weird beside me.
I also recently finished Furiously Happy (read that) and identified all too much with the statement: “These are the things that eventually happen when you’re alone at two a.m. often enough.” Except her story was funny and mine’s just me being the zombie version of me. And I would have worked 3 AM in there somehow for the dark night of the soul etc.
Disclaimer: I. Do. Not. Sleep.
I am sitting here trying to Netflix (I just verbed something! Except someone probably already has) myself asleep after several sleepless nights. I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that I need to pick up the mess on the couch, and then I realized it was all books. And I don’t know why.
The books beside me on the couch:
Infinite Jest— David Foster Wallace
British English A to Zed— Norman W. Schur, revised ed.
local weekly paper
The New Yorker (okay, technically, that’s today, and I really was looking through that)
Waiting for Godot— Samuel Beckett
Bible, open to Ecclesiastes
Tell the Wolves I’m Home*— Carol Rifka Brunt (there’s a pen stuck in this one)
Nick Cave: Sinner Saint (The True Confessions)— ed. Mat Snow
something completely illegible on a napkin– presumably me
*Tell the Wolves I’m Home is a few years old now, but I’m STILL trying to get people to read it. Please trust me: it’s excellent. Not happy. But excellent.
I’m not sure why it’s this piled up, because things were pretty clean (especially since I’ve fallen asleep here multiple times lately). I have no idea what was going on with all this. It would be nice if I woke up with something publishable on my computer screen, but it looks like the napkin is the product of the research here.