Too bad it’s getting dark so early now. I wanted to take a photo of the aviation chemicals plant a couple blocks from my apartment, because I’m convinced the runoff from that, and the local oil spill, have given me lupus or leukemia, and I thought you all should see the place before I’m diagnosed.
Really, though, I’m sure my joints just ache, and my insides and limbs feel like they’ve been trampled by tiny horses, because I’ve been sitting on my ass at work, as usual, and then writing for like 6 hours a night when I get home. (I’m revising the first 150 pages of my novel manuscript again.)
So the pipes you see above aren’t just a rust
icy neighborhood pictorial. They’re a representation of my current physical condition. (Except that they don’t seem to be developing cobwebs of tiny wrinkles beneath their eyes.)
I’ve been following the Slate discussion about the future of American fiction — you may have noticed that I try to read everything Gary Shteyngart writes — but I was late getting to today’s installment. I didn’t know that Shteyngart had paid me a compliment until this afternoon, when Dana emailed to tell me.
After fighting off the urge to delete or rewrite the entire site, I’d like to thank him. See, I’ve been meaning to apologize for the low energy level around here, but if it’s good enough for Shteyngart, my quarter is safe from the sorry jar for another day.
The delightful Annie Reid of Vancouver, Canada, will take over this site tomorrow, as she does most Fridays.
She is recovering from a terrifying encounter with a large dog. (It’s the small ones that always get me.)