I've been complaining to my friend Vinnie that I have nothing to read, but this is not precisely true. I actually have some quite good reading material sitting around untouched, but it's all serious and lit'ry, and I'm in the mood for shitlit right now.
People who've heard me use the term think that shitlit means really crappy material, but that's not exactly the case. It's more like, if books are food for the brain, then shitlit is like mental potato chips-- no substantial nutritional value, but it tastes good, and sometimes you just get that craving, even though you know it only makes you fat.
That said, however, to paraphrase someone I can't remember, when it comes to reading, "I'll eat chips and I'll eat meat, but there is some crap I will not eat." Sidney Sheldon and Robert Jordan spring to mind.
Meanwhile, one of my close friends has actually stated that he has read approximately just ten works of fiction in his entire 29-year lifetime. And this is a brilliant guy with a brain like a well-oiled clock, mind you. Ten, can you imagine? It boggles the mind.
God, I'm such a geek.
useless knowledge (or is it?)
To cure a cough, superstition says, there is a remedy surer than any mucolytic: take a hair from the coughing person's head, put it between two slices of buttered bread, feed this to a dog, and say:
"Eat well, you hound.
May you be sick and I be sound."
If it works, this could be a very useful thing to know, albeit not very pleasant for the dog.
poem: for Sage at almost two
someday you’ll have
long or petite,
wide or narrow—
bestride, perhaps, like
or pirouette, a dancer;
or prowl before you
cunning jungle cat.
will always remember
you, tiny-toed and tromping,
in your father’s too-large boots.