I'm not sleeping well. I'm hardly sleeping.
I'm trying to find my way back into The Tindalos Asset, but it's going very, very slowly. Yesterday, I had Spooky read the first section aloud to me. It's a solid start, but what next?
Yesterday was a bust, so far as finding our Xmas tree was concerned. We need a little two or three foot one for the mantle in the middle parlour, and the only place we know that sells them is Whole Foods, and they sold out, at both Providence locations. Today, we might go looking for our tree. I may take to the woods with a hatchet. Spooky went ahead and strung some lights on the mantle, around my 1941 Quiet Deluxe Royal typewriter and my grandmother's revolver, and she pronounced it a William Burroughs Xmas.
We started our third annual That 70s Show marathon last night.
This morning, I posted the following to Facebook: I consider it a sickness, my inability not to speak my mind here, the compulsion to share my thoughts when I know my thoughts are only going to piss off a lot of people and lose me readers. But it's a sickness we have all been infected with, the fundamental siren song of social media.
I must have lost, easily, three hundred followers on Facebook since the presidential election really heated up in the spring of 2016. And I can't afford that.
"I think we have created tools that are ripping apart the social fabric of how society works. The short-term, dopamine-driven feedback loops we've created are destroying how society works. No civil discourse, no cooperation; misinformation, mistruth. You are being programmed." ~ Chamath Palihapitiya, former Facebook executive
10:27 p.m. (Saturday)