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The VISTA people invited me to apply for a temporary administrative position in D.C.
I don’t flatter myself that they invited me to apply because of my superhuman administrative skills – although, oddly enough, I do have superhuman administrative skills.
I’m sure this was a batch mail.
I’d be an idiot to give up my present living situation, which suits me to a T. Nonetheless, I’m tempted to apply if only because – if I made the interview cut – I might get a free trip to D.C. out of it, which would allow me to visit various D.C.-based pals.
Else?
I’m watching lots of baaaaaad television because I’m finding June’s transition from Parisian ménage-a-trois to The Continental Hotel on West 95th Street almost impossible to pull off. Plus World War II is raging in the background.
Isn’t it weird how little Henry Miller has to say about World War II? Most male writers typically go into ecstatic trances when they get to write about war. What men define as bravery almost always entails a fantasy about what they’d do if a fist or a gun were aimed at them.
For all the and-then-she-balanced-on-the-tip-of-my-enormous-COCK-while-reciting-the-Pledge-of-Allegiance, Miller is a surprisingly atypical writer for his gender. Not exactly feminist. But maybe praeter-gender.
That doesn’t solve my problem of what to do about June, though. Sigh…
It snowed when I was doing my multi-mile slog through riverside forest yesterday. Snow didn’t stick, so it was pleasant. I quite like temps in the 30s so long as I’m dressed for them. The cold is invigorating.
Still filled with disproportionate amounts of annoyance at various self-entitled and/or stupid people lurking at life’s periphery, but as I keep reminding myself, they really are on the periphery. Makes no sense whatsoever to work myself up over them. Obsessing about them is just another way of avoiding coming to a decision on paper about June’s fate.
I don’t flatter myself that they invited me to apply because of my superhuman administrative skills – although, oddly enough, I do have superhuman administrative skills.
I’m sure this was a batch mail.
I’d be an idiot to give up my present living situation, which suits me to a T. Nonetheless, I’m tempted to apply if only because – if I made the interview cut – I might get a free trip to D.C. out of it, which would allow me to visit various D.C.-based pals.
Else?
I’m watching lots of baaaaaad television because I’m finding June’s transition from Parisian ménage-a-trois to The Continental Hotel on West 95th Street almost impossible to pull off. Plus World War II is raging in the background.
Isn’t it weird how little Henry Miller has to say about World War II? Most male writers typically go into ecstatic trances when they get to write about war. What men define as bravery almost always entails a fantasy about what they’d do if a fist or a gun were aimed at them.
For all the and-then-she-balanced-on-the-tip-of-my-enormous-COCK-while-reciting-the-Pledge-of-Allegiance, Miller is a surprisingly atypical writer for his gender. Not exactly feminist. But maybe praeter-gender.
That doesn’t solve my problem of what to do about June, though. Sigh…
It snowed when I was doing my multi-mile slog through riverside forest yesterday. Snow didn’t stick, so it was pleasant. I quite like temps in the 30s so long as I’m dressed for them. The cold is invigorating.
Still filled with disproportionate amounts of annoyance at various self-entitled and/or stupid people lurking at life’s periphery, but as I keep reminding myself, they really are on the periphery. Makes no sense whatsoever to work myself up over them. Obsessing about them is just another way of avoiding coming to a decision on paper about June’s fate.
