Oct. 4th, 2017

thanate: (bluehair)
(situation from last night stabilized & improving, thank you to those who had comforting words; the "I see you, yes that's awful" helps.)

A couple people around me have mentioned Conan Doyle's The White Company in the last couple months. I read it in my early 20s, and quite enjoyed it except for the part that still looms largest in my head: the scene where the captain of the ship is going around explaining to people there's a hole in the side and they're sinking and everyone else is too busy with their all-important geneology/gambling/whatever to do anything about it. And I still want to shake these people and ask what on earth is wrong with them, it doesn't matter who they're related to if they're at the bottom of the sea.

And just like the dog-in-the-manger Ayn Rand villains I didn't believe in at the same age, I feel like these suicidally preoccupied people are turning up like mushrooms after rain these days.

Look at me, such a bundle of joyous thoughts. Um, yes. I'm off to take out the trash & Deal With the Sink. (I should make myself a merit badge for "didn't firebomb the kitchen.")

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