o hai lj, wassup?
So I'm at home in bed. I thought I was getting a cold but it turns out I'm not. Turns out that what I thought was that back of the throat got a cold coming feeling, a feeling which made yesterday pretty unpleasant, was actually the face bruising from the fillings on Monday night. However today is also the first day of my period and quite frankly every month I go to work on that day 1 and spend the entire time thinking "why the fuck didn't I just stay home, this is horrible". So I'm glad I did. Even if I'm not actually sick.
Why isn't feeling like my internal organs are turning themselves inside out for shits and giggles considered sick? It certainly doesn't feel well. Weird.
So therapy. Sigh. Hormones and therapy shouldn't mix. That said. Man this shit is hard. Even without hormones.
I just reread The Sportswriter by Richard Ford. Now I'm kinda clever with the reading, although quite often my first reading can entirely miss the point - I would argue because the writer hasn't made thier point properly but that's an argument for another time Tom Goulter I'm looking at you - and possibly I miss thier point because I'm reading my own point into thier work, this I assume is normal, people miss writer's points all the damn time, it''s one of the reasons for editors. ANYways. So, The Sportswriter. I think that I would like to read something this intently soul-baring about someone who's life I can understand. Frank Bascombe is the kind of man, the kind of American man, that I simply cannot even imagine because I have no real conception of who that kind of person can be. It's cultural disassociation of the hugest kind. I have a similar kind of frustrated disassociation reading Haruki Murikami. I *get* that this is beautiful truth. I just have no way of assimilating it.
Don't get that with Atwood though. She can make characters true even if they are the kind of people I will never meet. Hmmm.