What day is it? Is it Sunday? Who even knows anymore? Not only is it almost 2022 and I still feel like I haven't processed all of 2020 and 2021, but like, I stayed up all night Friday until about 4:30 am on Saturday morning, riding out wave after wave of tornado watches, severe thunderstorm warnings, and tornado warnings that came too close for comfort.
Again, here I am with survivor's guilt, like we didn't even have any sticks to pick up in the yard, but elsewhere in the county people had downed trees, property damage, and power outages. And then just an hour north in Kentucky, devastation on a level I can't comprehend. So I'm like whiney whine whine, I paced around all night, fully dressed and wearing a bike helmet, shaking and frantically refreshing the @nashseverewx twitter feed. My house is still standing, we are unharmed, the cats have forgiven me for shoving them in their carriers and locking them in a closet in the middle of the night, but now I'm tired. Woe is me.
On the plus side, I finally figured out how to work the Red Cross emergency weather radio my grandmom gave me like 10 years ago, and boy are those alerts startling enough to pierce your very soul.
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| I legit thought this was going to be my last meal |
How many of these have you read? I like year-end best books lists because I can catch up on titles I may have missed, while usually feeling smug about how many I've read already. I've only read four of these, though, so I should flop down off my high horse and hie thyself to the nearest public library.
Aren't negronis over? In the sense that they had their moment and now people who order them are basic? Like the PSL of the cocktail world? I always feel like a farce when I order one, because they are delicious but I thought they already had their cultural zeitgeist moment and were now uncool again? Also, miss me with that croffle, the turducken of breakfast pastries I don't enjoy separately and certainly wouldn't enjoy in their portmanteaued Frankenstein state.
I admit, as a card-carrying, certified Old, I clicked on this article about the Birds Aren't Real movement, ready to tickle my sense of smug condescension. But what this dude is doing is actually pretty rad and I respect it. I had no idea.
Analog Reading:
Finished Last Picture Show by Larry McMurtry. It was a fast and amusing read, though I'm not sure how it holds up as an artifact of a time when people were openly racist and homophobic and ableist. Also, how common is bestiality in rural areas, really?
Finished Piranesi by Susanna Clarke. It was an abrupt transition in prose style from McMurtry's very literal, concrete, simple prose to something that was at first so very abstract and also British. About 10 pages in, I had the thought that I was reading words, all of which I understood, but none of which made a goddamn bit of sense in the order they landed on those pages. Then things started to fall into place, by design, as the narrator's predicament is revealed to himself, and, by extension, us.
Still pecking away at A Carnival of Snackery. I am following Sarah Silverman's mantra and making it a treat, lest I gorge myself on it all at once and find myself naked and strung out, chasing that David Sedaris dragon.
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