These posts are never planned, and yet, they keep happening. This week’s edition began as I drove to work one day last week. At the first stoplight, before I knew it, my thumbs paddled away on the notepad’s yellow lined screen.
Listening to NPR’s Marketplace. “Triopoly?” Evil.
Working late every night, I feel like Scrooge. But I’m only Tiny Tim’s nameless bookkeeping dad. #InkSmudgedFingers
OK. You’re going to do the best you can for 3.6 hours. Then it will be over. And you’ll be free.
Louie–Season 2–Ep. 1: Masterpiece.
Numerically, isn’t “correct enough” the same as wrong?
Maserati, have I publicly swooned over your beauty lately? *swoooon”
Does anyone else have trouble with bed sheets retaining lint?
Bunheads–Season 1–Ep. 9: Polysyllabic, witty bliss.
I don’t expect life-after-death to be proven any time soon, but I wish I could be convinced. #WhereAreYouDarling?
I wonder what the difference is between what I actually tweet and what I type into the notepad for “Near Tweets”. Let’s take a look at what I really tweeted during the same block of time.
Well, for one thing, actually tweeting is a form of communicating. Also, retweeting is a form of appreciating, among other things. Beyond that— blah, I’m boring myself with this. Lord knows scholars are studying these notions without such self-indulgence. Oooh, that brings to mind another near tweet:
My belly button isn’t dirty per se. I’ve just got dry skin.
In other news: no more full time bookkeeping for me. I’m no Bob Cratchit, dammit! I’ve reclaimed 16 hours each week for writing. I’ll maintain some of that for non-blogging, but surely this new schedule will allow me to get back to more thoughtfully delivered posts here. I’m currently brewing one about . . . . well, I’ll just write it.
Merry merry Christmas, dear friends and strangers alike. Thank you for stopping by.