Current recipe for happiness: my old record-player and a $3.99 used copy of Patience. Now is not this ridiculous? and is this not preposterous / A thorough-paced absurdity -- explain it if you can! / Instead of rushing eagerly to cherish us and foster us, / They all prefer this melancholy literary man! The record-player is brown leatherette, marked "califone" in a completely precious typeface, and is totally mono. But for the purchase of more cheap vinyl distraction I would never leave my room again.
LT has taken up residence here at V*rs**ll*s after her long sojourn at the Tsarina's court (and subsequent exile in Sch*n*ct*d*). She and I indulged our girliestest and watched Smallville tonight, for the beautiful MR's sake. LT shares my affection for slash fiction and careful anaylsis.
My parents came and conquered: they are old and frustrating, but our relationship is becoming easier the more they realise how little they can help me. Some connections fired in my mum's head about the nature of her well-meaning but ultimately annihilating criticisms. They left, under a merciful heaven's misprision that I must live a very quiet life feeding the cats and never, ever going out. My father and I were standing at the urinals at a restaurant one night, and he asked me if I had any special friends. (This is what is known in my family as "good timing") I replied that if I'd been born in the thirteenth century I would have lived in a monastery.
In short, my medievalism's affectation / Born of a morbid love of admiration!
Currently adored food: Gnocchi. It's all about gnocchi this week.
Current achievement: going to a job fair today, although it took me all day and was inordinately painful. I promised myself a trip to the record shop if I could go through with it, which explains the Patience, and also the shiny copy of Power, Corruption and Lies which is gracing the foot-end of my futon.
Current worried knot in the pit of my vitals: My landlord declared on Sunday that he was thinking of selling the house from under us. Nothing can be done about it, so I don't believe I'll sit and make plaint over it.
Life is made up of interruptions. The tortured soul, yearning for solitude, writhes under them.