I've determined the source of some of my unhappiness: I wake up and read too many hot-button articles, on topics which have very little bearing on me, then I argue with nincompoops on social media. It's sad and demented, but I do it anyway and I don't know quite know why.
I guess I'm, um, happy.
Then, to make matters worse, I'll arrive here and respond to some of the articles I've read - on feminism, for example - and I'll try to rebut the article without stating their premise or doing any justice to their concerns. It is bad form. Politics and social issues have worn me out and I have too little space left inside to appreciate some of the things that I used to.
I realized all of this while lying on the couch last night, unable to read a collection of essays by Capote, because I kept checking my phone. Engagement in cheap polemics was somehow better than mild enrichment through reading. That can't be right. It's not supposed to be that way.
Well, now that I know the shape of my vexations it is only a matter of waiting for them to emerge from the cave in which they dwell to forever vanquish the dragons of my mind.
We'll see how that goes.
I have a whole weekend with Rhys, starting sometime after my bike ride this afternoon then stretching into Monday morning. There will be a Super Bowl in there, and the Eagles will need to win it.
I am one week closer now to my seven week sabbatical. If a single week goes by so quickly while I am working then I fear how time will cheat me once it impatiently arrives where I am waiting, probably napping, expecting something big to begin.
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