a day

3 hours, 15 minutes ago:

I pull myself out of bed, wash my face, and feel sorry for myself as I realise that upon waking I'm still bothered by cat allergies. Toothbrush in mouth, I reach down to pet said cat and he punches my hand away; he's not being incredibly nice to me lately, and I'm thinking: is this worth it?

3 hours, 5 minutes ago:

I'm making breakfast - a Monterey Jack omelet, side of bacon, and coffee. I have never eaten an omelet as good as mine. When it comes to omelets there is no room for modesty. Mine rule. All others pale in comparison.

2 hours, 45 minutes ago:

I'm lounging in the brown leather armchair within reach of my bookshelves. I have Dostoevsky's The Idiot open in my lap. I've read it before, so I'm not truly into it - more daydreaming instead. It's raining outside, and there's a TV on somewhere in my flat. Regis and Kelly. I can make out Regis' voice from here.

1 hour, 55 minutes ago:

I'm sitting in the sun room drinking a coffee and watching the rain through the window. The odd car drives by, but nobody is on the street. I'm thinking about getting older. I turn 29 this month. Things change as you age. Your coffee gets blacker, your steak get rarer, and you sit in the back of taxis rather than in the front.

40 minutes ago:

I'm sitting at the computer looking at the news. There is talk that Arafat might be dead. From another room, the TV tells me that George Bush is holding a press conference about something else. I can make out Bush's voice from here.

Now:

I'm still sitting at my computer; I'm procrastinating. I have a lot to do, but am finding other things to do instead. Things like thinking about old commercials. Where's the beef! a wise woman once exclaimed. And, indeed, where is the beef? Baudrillard says that it no longer exists. Berkeley says that it never did. And Derrida - well Derrida says that it exists only in that sentence and nowhere else.

Where are the Weapons of Mass Destruction, George?