Over time I’ve sort of started fucking around more with the blog, making dumb jokes and so on. That’s cool with me, it can be fun. At the same time, I’ve started to feel like some of the stuff I’ve spent my time on that doesn’t feel like it’s fucking around, like that stuff really is just fucking around. I need to reassess a bit, methinks. Fucking around, great. Not fucking around, great. Trying to do (and initially thinking one is doing) the second while ACTUALLY doing the first, unforgivable. The worst part is when the fucking around and the not-thinking-I’m-fucking-around-when-really-I’m-just-fucking-around eats time for stuff that is genuinely not fucking around and that I genuinely want to engage with. ARGH.

And I still gotta finish that damn post on ch24 of v1 of Capital. ARGH again.

In other news, I’ve started trying to read for enjoyment when taking the bus to work. Weird, eh? I’m rereading If On A Winter’s Night A Traveler again, because once again I find that reading and I are less in love than we used to be (it’s not you, reading, it’s me). This time I’m reading the book out of order – I’m reading the numbered chapters all in a row, then I’m going to go back and re-read the interrupted novel passages all in a row. Then, who knows, maybe read it again cover to cover. Or not.