Barbara got a flat tire yesterday and asked me to pick up the twins from the bus stop. I did so. We picked up some burritos, watched Season 2 of "The Simpsons", and generally had a blast.

I canceled my subscription to Pandora. I have Google Play now, and it has various stations that I an Thumbs-Up or Thumbs-Down and it doesn't care. It will put my liked songs into a playlist.

Pandora was good to me. Still, it's redundant and it keeps asking me to upgrade to Pandora Pro or something and I'm like "I pay a subscription for no ads, and this is an ad dammit!" and then people stare at me because I'm yelling at my phone.

Is it too late to go to school to study only "Moby Dick"? Perhaps there is a degree somewhere in imitating great art. Yea, then, could I busy myself with imitating and perhaps in the failing find some solace, a literary Sisyphus, dodging the boulder of rightful criticism.

Unknown, yet I've not looked far beyond the horizon of this particle-board desk.

This morning it was cold enough that the pups curled up together. Usually Watson doesn't care for it. Marceline, the smaller of the two, rested her head on his rump. I turned up the heat to 72. It's hard for me to gauge how uncomfortable the cold makes them. Well, they were up on the bed, so they should be okay. Their own dog bed is a kid-sized mattress. But everybody loves a queen.

I haven't weighed myself since my surgery. During my pre-op check-in, my weight was 144, but that was fully clothed and with shoes on. I figured I would reduce during my recovery since it hurt so much to eat; what I was not expecting was my lack of appetite in the weeks that followed. It hasn't been a full month yet, and it's not something that worries me. It's kind of funny that my legendary appetite may have been beaten by a common medical procedure.

Now is the winter of our discontent. No, wrong quote.

"There is no steady unretracing progress in this life; we do not advance through fixed gradations, and at the last one pause:–through infancy's unconscious spell, boyhood's thoughtless faith, adolescence' doubt (the common doom), then scepticism, then disbelief, resting at last in manhood's pondering repose of If. But once gone through, we trace the round again; and are infants, boys, and men, and Ifs eternally." -Moby Dick.

Much better. Melville, you've prepared me for everything. The pondering repose of If. Should be carved into the mast, like the Lorax and his stump proclaiming "Unless". If. If. If.

The raven cawing "Nevermore," Macbeth's porter crying "Knock, knock, knock!"

And the bell tolls for me to return to my toil. Buzz buzz buzz. 

The calm after the storm. Feels like a hangover.

There's still some little jobs here and there. Curtain rod to install. Curtain rod to adjust. The usual. Concrete tasks with which to busy myself. I'm ready to walk everyday again. No more of this every-other-day nonsense. Must grind along.

Oh man, I totally dropped a tv. The one on the roller cart. I had moved it out of the way of the party into the game room. Then I was moving it out of my way in the dark and it fell. Hilarious. It was my least-favorite TV. Edge-lighting. Pheh. Still, I feel stupid. Careless. Reckless.

I've made my peace with it. As long as I am aware that I am stupid, careless, and reckless, there is a chance I can prepare fail-safes.

As soon as the fail-safe for my laziness kicks in.