burning at the centre of time

Those of you who've known me long enough know that this time of year is sort of rubbish for me--always with the allergies, one year unceremoniously shitcanned from a temp position, one year the only time I've been sick at a party, one year mother announced divorce. Gorgeous time of year, but often painful. I try not to dwell in it, but things just always seem to happen in the last week of April and first week of May. Bleh.

I need to be a better skeptic, realize that the human brain looks for patterns where all that really is are mere serendipity. But the OCD and skepticism tend to cancel each other out.

Anyway. I keep meaning to write about stuff I've enjoyed lately, a couple of webcomics and Neal Stephenson's book Anathem, but I am made of unmotivated along with the existential angst, and so I haven't. And I need to do the multitude of things I need to do today, which wasn't conducive to sleeping until noon like I did.

Note to self: put next Temeraire book on hold at library.

Ride that failwhale, Rhi.