Should I ever have one, and should whatever poor female bears the child acquiece, which won't happen.
Anyway, I spent the day before work eating Indian food and shopping for books with Cheyenne. Three for three. Because I got some birthday money from my parents the other day, I did the proper thing and spent almost half of it on books: David Foster Wallace's Everything and More, which I already know I'm completely unqualified to read, John Banville's Shroud, Peter Ackroyd's London: The Biography, which I've been eyeing for some time, and, most pleasantly of all, How To Be Idle by Tom Hodgkinson. While I've never gotten my hands on a copy of the magazine he edits, the Idler, I've read everything available on the website, and through it I've discovered all manners of people and things that share and expound my love for, well, idleness. How To Be Idle is an excellent read, both thematically and stylistically; Mr. Hodgkinson really knows how to convey the humanity of the idler's position, and without resorting to drunken swearing, as I'm prone to doing.
Now I'm waiting around for the Mann to arrive from Florida so I can show him our new apartment. It's been a good day, all in all, if you don't count that ten-hour stretch of work that wedged its way in there.
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