Posthuman Blues

I spent a chunk of my day reading a lame science fiction novel called "Wyrmhole." Now I'm at a crossroads. Do I pick up another book and keep reading or do I start writing fiction in earnest? Can I do both and still write effectively? I charged my laptop the other day and put it on top of my stereo where I can't ignore it. Even so, MacLeod's "Engine City" is exerting an almost narcotic pull on me.

I'm all out of groceries -- down to some dehydrated soups. No pop left, so I'm freezing the ice cubes from my last cream soda; they have a faint sugary residue, which is better than nothing. I indulged and ate at Uno's Pizza the other night; now I find myself eyeing Fred P. Ott's out my window and imagining biting into another veggie cheese-steak sandwich. Maybe I should go there. Maybe I'll meet a girl who digs pale, introverted guys who write about Mars. Maybe Natalie Portman will be there . . .

"I am the son and the heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar."

--The Smiths, "How Soon Is Now?"