Why do work and my family insist upon taking up time which could be more happily spent reading or at least writing about reading? There are worse things than a relative who wants to let you know that Valerie Bertinelli used to be a drug addict or dealing with Delta Airlines but in the same week?
It doesn't help matters that I'm currently reading Shake the Devil Off by Ethan Brown which is depressing AND preachy, and Postwar by Tony Judt which is panoramically informative but with three straight chapters of Stalinism. And as I type this I'm being subjected to Bob Dylan singing "John Wesley Harding." A man who murders then cooks his girlfriend, the ruthless oppression of millions and Bob Dylan's nasal vocal stylings. Death, where is thy sting?
I need to read something purely and nonviolently entertaining. And bring my headphones to Starbucks.