Posthuman Blues

I seem to be developing carpal tunnel syndrome, or something disturbingly like it. The dental instrument that had embedded itself in my skull fell out overnight; I discovered it, bloodied and sheathed in coagulated pus, next to my pillow. (Just kidding, folks.)

I'm in a generally foul mood. Why? I tire too easily. I find prolonged contact with other people oppressive. It's all I can do to limp through a week in order to spend myself reading over the weekend, which is becoming my only genuine pleasure. (Right now I'm reading John Keel's "The Complete Guide to Mysterious Beings.") I find the familiar voices on NPR increasingly annoying. More than ever, I'm a character in a Franz Kafka novel, displaced and alienated; the utter apocalyptic stupidity of Bush's pet war, Columbia disintegrating in flames...the death of old acquaintances, the death of Fred Rogers, you name it.

I must look on the bright side: William S. Burroughs' enduring canon, Zippy the Pinhead, William Gibson, espresso, R. Crumb, Portishead... Happy postmodern thoughts.