the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

Boredom is underrated. If you doubt me, spend over a decade without the chance to be bored. You'll forget who you are. Once you lose yourself, it can be hard to find you again.

So far, I've rediscovered that I enjoy listening to music just to listen to music. Right now, I'm immersed in Anna Nalick, a brilliant young artist whose album I made a copy of 7 years ago when Mich gave me this laptop. I was learning to use iTunes and this was the tester album. I did something wrong when I copied it, though. I got all the music but I didn't have the artist's name or any other details. Over the years, I've asked Mich who that artist was again; she dutifully answers, and I never remember. Today, I looked up the artist and named the tracks and am currently floating on her voice. Just wonderful.

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My neighbor, Necip, just came by to check on me. His English is getting better while my Turkish is stagnant. He asked (mostly through pantomime) when my cast is coming off (hopefully, Saturday), told me I'm losing weight, and offered to take out my trash (an offer I graciously accepted). He also wants to get together and play instruments. (Remember, he's the retired professional oud player while I'm just a guitar hack. And our styles of music are, I have no doubt, very different. When we do this, it'll be an occasion to write about, I warrant.)

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I had a chess date today, but didn't feel like company, so I didn't answer the call.

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I've been trying to read Wuthering Heights. I remember trying to read it when I was in the fifth grade. I found it in the library, had heard of it, checked it out, and tried to read it. It was a bit of a tall order for me, and it almost single-handedly turned me off of classic literature for years. On Mich's suggestion, I've tackled it again.

I'm about a quarter of the way through it and losing momentum. I don't seem to be catching much of the plot. There's an adopted Gypsy kid named Heathrow or something, whose only friend is his adopted cousin/sister/whatever Catherine. He lives in a house that's apparently haunted, and he and everyone who lives with him are rude and hateful beyond belief. We get the whole story from the nosy neighbor who rents from them and a female servant who shares all the gossip with the stilted diction of a Bronte sister. When I finish this book, if I finish, I'll have to consult CliffNotes to find out what I just read.

Mich and I have markedly different tastes in literature. She digs stuff like Anne of Green Gables, too. Who needs that? Gimme some David Sedaris, Hunter S. Thompson, or Shakespeare.

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Now listening to kd lang's "Like Blood to Chocolate Fall." What the hell does that mean, anyway?

What good does it do to get an advanced degree in English literature if you still can't make sense of pop music?

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My left ring and pinky fingers have been numb for almost a month now. Weird.

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You should read this article about the top 5 regrets people have on their death bed. What regrets do you think you'll have?

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