Useful Tip Fo' Life:

The crippling emotional discord brought on by prolonged contemplation of the labyrinthian nature of reality can be quickly dispelled by a few laps of F-Zero.

This is why I don't make a good English student. Whenever I hear a term such as "comparative literature" I immediately picture something like this:



I hope to attend the next conference on comparative literature where I will resolve disputes and turn a small profit by selling t-shirts that read "Let's Settle This With Hover-Cars".

Writer's Corner: It took me more than twenty minutes of furious internal debate to decide on the appropriate car for each author. At first I was heavily influenced by nationality but then I was like, "Fuck it, it's the future."

Okay, just touch the keys lightly and see what happens. Good, so far no spelling mistakes. That's a good sign. Let's see what I can still spell: Kumquat. Periphery. Glockenspiel. Fahrenheit. Occam. Stoichiometry. Platonic. Gimbel. Damn. Missed that last one. That's fair; I can't think of what a gimbal is.

But that's fine, I'm sure I'm not concerned with gimbals right now. How can I be concerned with something when I don't know what it is?

I should rest. I should put on my Batman pajamas and climb into bed. Wrap myself up snug in my thick red blanket with the tigers on it. Sleep and dream and awaken refreshed. It's the perfect plan.

I had a thick blue blanket with dolphins on it. I wonder where that is.

Why am I feeling this way? Maybe it's the Tolstoy...

I read a book today. Other than that I wasn't terribly productive.

I'm taking some medicine to help my attention span (such as it is) and I've been reading like a kid again. I'm irrationally opposed to any medical solutions to ailments that I don't consider life-threatening, but once I began to lose focus halfway down every page (not due to literary crappiness) I yielded.

In the past two weeks I've read Invisible Cities, Red Mars, a couple of Xanth novels, One Hundred Years of Solitude, re-read Mysteries of Pittsburgh, and I'm well into Valis by Philip K. Dick. On deck is Samuel Beckett's Watt since I've only read/performed Waiting For Godot years ago and I can't claim that I really understood it.

Rather than feeling satisfied by my literary gluttony, I am becoming more voracious. It is a pleasant gnawing, like being awoken by the scent and sizzle of a huge breakfast.

This is my last week of babysitting. When I began, sheesh, four or five months ago(?) the twins could do little more than lie on their backs staring up at me in their baby way, a mixture of judgment and acceptance. Now they're taking their first steps and hurling food like pros. They're also much heavier but my back never hurts anymore. Heh, I must have finally developed those lower back muscles. I could probably lift four, even five babies if I had to.

I will miss spending so much time with them. I will miss Ender's blatant defiance of my authority and how Joshua will crawl up and lie on my chest when he gets sleepy. I will also sorely miss my middle of the day nap.

Other matters await my attention, and my carefree days of frolicking, swimming lessons, and teaching them how to properly harass the dog are at an end. It may be for the best. I try to nurture their independence, problem-solving skills, and healthy suspicion of authority figures, but I worry that in time they may pick up my reclusiveness, moodiness, and ambush-predator approach to problem solving.

It has been my blunt realization that to be a better parent, I must become a better person. I don't think I'm that person yet, so it's best to bail out before anything's irreparable. I'm not too worried. We Lopez's are quite resilient.

I will miss my babies.