It's very hard to be honest as an author, an author speaking through the internet, when people are so quick to take offense at that which truly is not offensive. I suppose we have returned to the problem of the Outrage Brigade, online bullying, those self-proclaimed "social media activists," the social justice warriors. The sorts who would, in their attempt to root out perceived evils, burn a whole village to destroy an imagined monster. I cannot, for example, be honest about my feelings on aging, on my personal experiences and subjective impressions, without, inevitably, being labeled an ageist. If I am truthful and tell you that I find no silver linings, only an increasingly wretched decline towards decrepitude – which is pretty much true – some ass clown's gonna get their panties in a twist. You know, like when a twatter was out there branding me a racist because, in Silk, Daria Parker thinks of Niki Ky as exotic. Yes, well. Whatever. I loathe aging. I'd give a couple of fingers and a couple of toes to make it back to thirty. Fuck, I'd settle for thirty-five.
If I judge yesterday on the basis of how much work I got done, it doesn't add up to much. As in, no writing was done. But we made our way through to rain to Thayer Street. Back in November, I was thinking about getting a new pair of Docs. Yesterday, I finally did. The fourteen-eye pair I virtually lived in for so long, my first pair, I got those in July 1993. Back then, they were all made in England (not just an available-at-a-premium handful). Ah, that greasy leather. Also, my thanks to the very kind young woman who offered me her yellow laces; that sort of made my day. Thank you.
But, yeah. It was rainy.
Last night, there was MEAT from Wes' Rib House for dinner, and we finished the final season of Dexter. It was an appropriately grim and inconclusive conclusion.
Okay. I need to write a lot today, to try and make up for yesterday. And last week.