Some strange animal is outside making noise. I'm still in the country, at the ranch, feelin' relaxed and loved. I'm probably about one year from a severe and sweeping "fuck-all" moment, quitting everything I know to branch out in some new direction of my life.
In pop-psychology parlance, I am feeling genuinely inauthentic in most of my endeavors at this point. I could care less, which makes me sad, so I try *hard* to care more. Do I really care about the foolishness physicians get up to, especially when they are so tolerant of one another? Nyet.
Do I give a screaming dodo's flip about people in the office, transient as they are? Hell, fuck, no.
You know, I want to convert the office to a nice immigrant cash-only endeavor for the staff. Get off payroll. Always have some folks on call. Who cares about anything else? It's not brain surgery. It sure as hell isn't fun. (retch, gag)
Last night I watched Indiana Jones with the fam. I took a bath and slathered lotion and oil all over my baaahhhhday. I contemplated my toes, came to peace with not wanting to participate a'tall in my writing class. Spent some time debating salsa class and weight training (I think I can dance, I'm not sure I should be bench-pressing).
I like having freshly trimmed hair. I finished reading A Year In the Merde (again) and marvelled at the guy in France I met years ago now, who was so severely well-connected and so damn French, in the best possible way. He definitely ascribed to the "if you like 'em, move 'em in" philosophy (thank god), and the "it's not what you know, it's who you know" philosophy. Certainly we got along like a house afire. Damn shame I haven't seen him in person since that initial meeting, but life takes you places sometimes.
His fractured English was tres mignon.
Alright, I'm off to go shopping.
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