(a) organizing one's room
(b) trying on khakis that have heretofore sat, limp and lifeless, at the bottom of a crowded closet, alien to the rest of one's wardrobe, a reminder of elementary school and USPS uniforms, not to mention investment bankers.
(c) taking unflattering, bad pictures of oneself (see photo, left)
(d) practicing Spanish with flashcards
(e) writing (sometimes)
Perhaps that is a hyperbole; Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, Rachmaninov, Pavement, and Lionel Richie also suffice in some of the above contexts.
I think I have anger management problems. Or maybe I just hate nine out of ten people. Is this hyperbole, too? I honestly don't know.
I inhaled cayenne pepper today for reasons I don't want to get into, and my face is still suffering for it.
Thomas Love Peacock, author of Nightmare Abbey (1817 I think?) and contemporary of Percy B. Shelley (who totally suxxx) is unexpectedly fucking wonderful and has inspired me to read more little known early 19th century novels.
I have a feeling khakis might come back, in a big way. Aside from the fact that they exude an aura of stuffiness and social anxiety and are generally the least flattering pants on the planet. I still want to wear mine with pride, though. And a comfy plaid shirt.