Summer break is mercifully almost upon us. Unfortunately, so are the cicadas. They are fully, unrelentingly, upon us. Crawling all over us. I have been molested by enough of them that I've lost count. Those suckers are solid. Just ask my left boob, which collided with one flying full force at me while I was running. Use that for your SAT math prep questions.
If a woman wearing a sports bra with maximum compression begins running at 6.2 miles per hour from Point A, and a horny cicada weighing approximately 8 grams begins flying at maximum cicada velocity from Point B, which entity will be destroyed in the collision? The cicada, or the woman's will to live?
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I dunno, here's this essay that validates some of my life choices: The Parents Who Regret Having Children
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Analog Reading:
Read Percival Everett's Erasure. Whooo. That felt meaty. A writer grappling with the choice between artistic integrity and financial security, while dealing with conceptions of race, questions about his own identity, and some heavy family issues. And it still managed to be at times darkly and absurdly funny.
I'm about to start reading a Stephen King story collection, Four Past Midnight, which, for him, was an excuse to shove 4 of what anyone else would consider to be full-on novels into one discrete package. It is about 1000 pages, so I will be reading it for the foreseeable future.
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