I'm still my usual bitchy self, but I've been whoring myself way too much of late. You wouldn't know it from my blog posts, because hypergraphia is a sort of self-administered therapy for me, and writing a blog entry seems less useless (by a narrow margin) than writing in a journal.
It's a trade-off, because a blog gives me the illusion of privacy. If I ever said something sufficiently interesting, the Google people would probably de-index the site and instead of getting worm-viri posing as e-mails from the Feds, I'd probalby have Feds taking my computer to see what kind of e-mails I've been sending.
A hand-written journal gives me the reality of privacy, but because even I can't read my handwriting cold, it means my entries are obscure even to me. Plus, I've never found a pen with a spell-check.
Or a search engine.
So what am I thankful for on this weird holiday? I'm thankful I don't have to fucking work. Between seasonal overtime (sixty-hour weeks) and my freelance stuff, I've worked the past seventeen consecutive days. Most of those days have been spent working, a few hours spent having a cocktail or three and blogging, or sleeping. Right, I know, I'd be better off sleeping than with the blog-tail hour, but like I say, liquor or no, I find spouting words therapeutic.
It is a bizarre holiday, isn't it? I wonder, who brought the compulsive behaviors to the first Thanksgiving?
I'm not happy about it being at the trade-off of slavery and small pox blankets, but tomorrow I get to sleep in, take a long shit (maybe finish the book I've been reading for a weird span of time). Maybe mow up the leaves before the city threatens me with fines. Again.
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