I find myself compelled to write but, for the first time, "severely" lacking something about which to write. A paradox as Boswell has recently pointed out: the paradox of having time to write, which I have, and having time to lead an interesting life to have something about which to write.
Not that my life isn't interesting: it is. It's certainly not boring, I do not consider myself boring, and I rarely experience boredom; however, to an outsider, the mundane of "everyday life", of a lower-middle-class single white paralegaling woman, tends to be less interesting than the life of the traveling adventurer, something I once was.
That being said... I recently had two more house guests, one an artist, student, and traveler (for the week), the other her girlfriend, a good friend of mine. I enjoyed having the company in my house for 8 or 9 days, and I enjoyed these two in particular. The experience has made me think again on the possibility of getting a roommate, although I'm thinking my neuroses might be too much, still, for a "permanent" house guest of sorts. We'll see.
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You should listen to MGMT if you don't already. Actually, there are many groups to whom you should listen, but I'm on an MGMT kick for a while now.
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