Back in the halcyon days of high school (>>shudder<<), I had a friend name Shannon Bradley. Shannon was a somewhat portly, though pretty blonde girl who was in French class with me for 3 years. At least once a week, she would sit down just across from my secret crush Amy Roberts swivel around to me (sitting right behind my Valkyrie Mountain Goddess Amy, natch!) and say:

Harold I'm going to complain

Shannon, or "Bob" or "Shannon-Bob" (as everyone from Eastern Kentucky must have a suitable middle name to even-out the abruptness of their first name), was a complainer, you see. She didn't whine or wheedle, but she did complain about those things that irked her. And so, I warn you:

Dear reader, I'm about to complain.


  1. Allergies have returned with a vengeance. Since my sojourn in the cold on Sunday, I've had constant post-nasal drip, a dry throat, and general lethargy

  2. Cold medication makes you drowsy

  3. Not sleeping makes you drowsy. Sleep debt isn't something I've dealt with much since 1999, but it's back. The bank is open, and I'm borrowing much more than I'm depositing.

  4. Not getting to your weekly PTR review @ 9am makes baby Jesus cry. For some reason, I thought this mtg was @ 10, and so I sat in my office for half-an-hour until I realized...hmmm...wonder where everyone is?



On the whole, work is actually fine. I got a glowing performance review from my former manager ("Role Model"), so that should mean a decent raise for my salary, from "overpaid" to "truly obscene", and maybe another promotion, which would mean me getting my own office (if an 8x12 postage stamp can be called a decent office).

Been reading quite a bit lately, trying to catch-up on my "New Yorker" backlog. The managing editor's weekly anti-Bush diatribes notwithstanding, I still find the magazine to be provocative, well written (of course), and good mental food. I recommend a subscription to anyone who desires writing above the pulp found in "Time" or "Newsweek". Plus, the cartoons are delightful, if often obscure.

On the book front, I'm working on Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded by Simon Winchester. The book's more a history of the entire region both before and after the cataclysmic explosion of Krakatoa in 1883. Like many history tomes, some sections warrant in-depth reading, while others only a brief scan. The various peons the Dutch East India company sent to establish the Batavia colony are, well, boring. On the whole, glad I got this one from the library instead of ordering from Amazon.

* * *

>> begin melodramatics <<

Feeling rather sad today. Life seems very, very still at the moment, as though no forward progress is being made. I think I'm going to have to plan some sort of daily regiment of exercise, self-improvement, and positive tasks that are going to get me out of this funk. Moveover, I need to define a goal.

Seriously, this is an issue for me: My whole life was the pursuit of a goal set for me by my parents (specifically, my Mom)--Get out of Eastern Kentucky, get an education, and establish a life of my own. Well, for the most part (minus a house, a wife, and children), that's accomplished. Thus the question: Now what? Life is a marathon, not a sprint, and I find myself rather ahead of the pack after the first 5 miles, but facing the next however-many miles with little drive or direction.

In sum, I've always been a very driven individual, but find myself without any drive, being reactive instead of proactive. I have goals: a house, a family, various material possessions (cars I love, gadgets), but (except for the family part) it feels incredibly hollow and unfulfilling somehow.

>> end melodramatics <<

* * *

On the bright side, I bought a pound of Sumatran beans from Coffee Corner in Georgetown yesterday, and the coffee is bold, smooth, and delicious. Maybe a bit of caffiene is just what I need for this particular funk.

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