Idle hands are the devil’s tools
It never ceases to amaze me how simply subtracting my classes from my routine somewhat paradoxically disrupts my life. I’ve come to dread the intervals between the end of classes and the start of a new semester; even worse is the summer. Reading Week is another example of my having so much free time on my hands I’m unable to do anything with said free time.
I’d go to the gym but a) it’s motherhumping cold out, b) I’ve been three days in a row, and related to b), c) I hurt my left shoulder.
I suppose I could get going on that reading I mentioned, especially Augie March. I mean, it’s 20th-century AmLit, and for some reason, I love 20th-century AmLit above everything else.
I could work on that deep blog post about the Sunscreen song and my life in 1999. I don’t want everyone who comes here (mostly looking for the bride wigout video—still) to think all I’m able to write is pop-culture snark.
What else is there to do? Have I really settled into such a boring existence?
This sort of uneasy boredom is what I remind myself of when I’m in an uninteresting class. And it could me much, much worse. I could be back at that soul-destroying job I miraculously hung on to for five years. What a horrible place that was. Talk about treating employees like shit and an endless salary freeze despite the company’s still turning a profit. I’d mention the place by name, but they’re notorious for online spying on employees past and present and then threatening to sue for libel.
See, idle time, and I start thinking about that cesspit. I consider going to their website to see what crappy-ass products they’re hocking now. What a fucking dump. I can’t believe I used to haul my ass to Dorval an hour each way every day. No wonder I drank.
Idle time, and I start this lame-ass stream-of-consciousness crap. Stream-of-consciousness is such an unbelievably hackneyed form/style, and I hate hackneyed crap and clichés.
Idle time. Man, I’d love to have a class to go to this evening. Nothing’s stopping me from going to the gym, and I suppose I could do something other than weights, or at least take care to not further hurt my left shoulder. But the place was dead yesterday, and I’m strange in that I don’t like the gym when it’s too busy, but I get creeped out when it’s empty.
I could stalk on Facebook, but the stalking I’ve done to date has turned up no one interesting. Besides, all Facebook does is mock me through the active social lives of early-twentysomethings, making me feel old and boring.
Maybe I’ll have a snack.