Futile Odds, Laughing Gods

I'm not the type to read a book, any book, no matter how much I may like it more than one time. I don't know, it almost seems disrespectful to the honor of the book. My memory of how much I loved it the first time around is just that satisfying I guess. Anyway, that's usually how things are. I'm reading Neil Gaiman's American Gods for the third time in like a week, and I can't help but feel myself growing more into the book each day. It's like a pleasant fuzzy fungus of anthropomorphic goodness.

Nothing's working in my apartment. I think I've contact-depressed all of the appliances, and as impressed as I was with my mad pseudo empathic skills, it's still not a good thing that my lights, television, coffee pot, radio, and A/C won't turn on. And so, I'm reading. Reading and writing. Most of the writing stems from the reading in some way, but it's coming out with a distinctly dark flair to it that I'm not all too sure is really mine. It's nifty though, speaking in someone else's voice for the time being as I've not actually spoken spoken (aloud) for a while now. I fear I might be mute. I also fear that I've Helen Kellerosis. The blindness should be coming shortly.

In any case, things feel shitty right now. I've not been paid for my work, I hate my job, I strongly dislike my neighbors, the weather's quite gross, and I don't really like myself anymore. Everything feels tremendously strenuous to do, it sucks. All I want to do is sleep, but bedsores hurt (so I've been told) and I'm not sure what to do anymore.

On the bright side, Vision: M's are on sale. Yay.