As soon as I felt sure to reinvigorate my blogging, a wonderful and terrible event happened. I got my apartment. I love the place. Six hundred square feet of instant pleasure. The only problem is that I have yet to procure internet, since the cost is roughly thirty three dollars a month. So I've been forced to devote time to my meat body or disconnected intellectual pursuits. Without the internet as a distraction I have watched all one hundred and fourteen DVDs that I own. I push vigorously through books that generally would bog me down. I don't favor the realists, I go for more modern and postmodern authors, but Irving's Cider House Rules has been exceptionally riveting since I have passed that challenge to all novels, chapter one.
Currently I remain occupationally challenged, a cure that I will have to purge in January in order to pay utilities. I am unsure about what employment to seek. I know that I would be unwilling to have a career. I still hope to live a ludic and extraordinary lifestyle, and the only foreseeable method of attaining that is to finish my novel, or a few, and become published. My first novel remains in infancy which troubles me greatly. I keep pushing to work on it, but other characters bloom in my mind and the only way to keep them from overgrowing into a blanket of madness is to release them, mainly in screenplays or plays.
The Epicurean lifestyle disturbs me far less than my lover, distanced as she usually is. I can survive on fifteen dollars of food a week, and still spend the nights with my compatriots. My beau feels that a certain level of income is required for requirements sake. How stressful it must be for her to deal with my doctrine of work powerfully when passion strikes. At the same time I understand that the systems that exist will make every effort to remove me if I don't offer them the tithe of my slavery. So the option then retrogresses to where I should seek employment.
Even then the suboption of also returning to school to qualify for a summer in England haunts even that realm. I know that I don't want loans or to partake in any endeavor that I don't have actual means to pay for. Deficit spending is a paradise of fools. The trick with returning to the realm of "education," which I only now understand is not just coincidently the root of reeducation since learning is gone and obedience is in, is that I do not wish to go. Though it may be the coals to cross for a lovely summer of London debauchery.
Options options everywhere and none of taste without stink.
