So. Since I last checked in, I’ve finished reading Gone Girl, as the mysterious river of snot that’s taken up permanent residence in my noggin had me skipping work today. That is: Gone Girl was my nanny-abductor, the kind of you’re-locked-to-me presence that kept promising that it’ll all be better soon, darling dearest—besides, wasn’t it the best company anyway? That is: I write this having uncurled myself from the fetal position I’d frozen into—thanks, Gillian Flynn: I hardly know what hit me. [Continue reading.]
I began reading both books right before the year ended—on top of promises to myself that I’d finally wrap up Rowan Moore [architecture] and Richard Dawkins [science]. Those promises fulfilled, I then leapt to Hornby [nerdiness], mostly because I couldn’t help it. Proust and Flynn—the latter I bought on the 31st because I was afraid I’d get bored during an lonesome late lunch—moldered in my overnight bag until I went back home in the new year.
Rest assured, I duly chastised myself: You are doing your shoulders no amount of good, Sasha. You can at least read something and make the pain worth it, please. We all have ways of motivating ourselves; my terrible posture happens to be among the most effective. [Continue reading.]