Thursday, February 18, 2010

you know the toast isn't even warm

This has been one of those days that never gets off the tarmac.

First of all, I had a little too much wine last night, followed promptly by a little too much sangria. I broke my Wednesday routine and, thereby, my weekly rhythm, and I'm paying for it with this oppressive stupor. If life were fair, I would have spent this morning in my turret finishing Little Children and starting any one of the five or seven titles in the immediate queue (I'll say this for the G.I.Q., he really brings it bookwise).

The aforementioned stupor was probably worth it for the live music (wicked Cuban salsa band), the warmth and the gift of first editions. Forget sleep. I'll sleep when I'm dead.

But a night like that always leaves a funny taste in my mouth when I try to slog through the next day, as if I'm suddenly horrified by the routineness of my routine, suddenly straining at the reins—though precisely where I'd run if I ever broke free, who knows.

My perception of my own needs can hardly be trusted. If I had unlimited funds and full control of my faculties, I'd be on the next flight to Paris. Or Buenos Aires. Or Wyoming.

Wanderlust. I never said it was pretty, folks.

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