Annoyance

Frankly, I'm pissed.

I lack rigour, will, determination and a desk lamp. My collected works are so much bullshit and my intellectual efforts terminate at airy discussions.

This is my break. I am fifty pages through J.A. Thorpe. I'm browsing. It's my one true talent.

Return.

Skillfully. With Style.

Last night, Dm and I decided to further the cause of procrastination by wandering the campus between the hours of five and six. How does that Magna Carta song go?

... Everything is grounded
For the fog is down again.


Much like that, yes. The highlight of this particular excursion was not, as one might imagine, the copious amount of pipe smoking, but instead the break-in my partner in crime arranged. Turns out, there is a way to get into Renfield - all you have to do is shinny in through a window on the ground floor. And good christ, did Renfield 3 look good. All colourful and stuff. Very charming. Rooms looked a bit odd though, especially since I expected to look in and see Prager vegetating in his chair. Ah well.

Corridors are wide, though. I'd forgotten about that. We East-dwellers really live in a dump. A taste of real urban life and all that.

In other news, the Sun has yet to turn nova and biologists still pretend cartoons + fancy terminology = science. The end.

Think of the Children!

It has just occurred to me that every time I update this blog, facebook is going to pop my account back up on the "updated friends" list. Now, technology is a happy thing, but shoving this crap down various throats via that happy thing is, well, less happy. So, to make everyone happy, I'm going to have to veto this particular happiness and dehappy the blog from facebook notes.

That is, when I'm awake enough to actually log back into facebook.

Did I mention that I'm tired? I'm so damned tired that I walked into the library for the sole purpose of seeing if the 1918 copy of Lenin's Proletariat Revolution in Russia was still around (it was). This is what one gets for staying up. Yes.

Damn that lucidity.

Soothingly Surreal Sounds

Goddammit, Rohini, I don't think you know of this blog, but I've got to hunt you down and tell you - because you absolutely need to hear this story.

I was performing my usual China Mieville rant when, not unsurprisingly, the subject of Robert Jordan arose. It seems a low opinion of the man is not uncommon. Sheepishly, I confessed to holding some residual fondness for the man; at least, for the first six or so books. The tale I was then given went as follows: apparently, this girl went to Jordan's book signing and stood around in the line for what must have been a significant period of time (the man does have a following). When clouds parted sufficiently to let this little ray of bitterness through to the man himself, she delivered a scathing blow. To quote:

"(I) told him to stop describing female clothing at such length. He was not amused."

For the record, that's awesome.