It's well into Wednesday night, the weekend is right around the corner, and I've still got a touch of the SNB. Usually it doesn't stick with me like this. I've pinpointed a few things that are getting me down. At least a few that I will admit to on this blog.
1) He-who-shall-remain-nameless* had me all geared up about the possibility of a camping trip this weekend. Now he can't go. I was envisioning a weekend filled with guilty pleasures purchased at Wal-Mart (tube tops, camo trucker hats, lawnchairs), campfires, packet meals, and floating around in an ice cold swimming hole, but now I will be in the city. It's good that I'll be in the city, I suppose. I can use the time to do useful things I've been putting off, like taking my duvet to the cleaners, doing some research at the library, and renting X-Men II.
2) It seems like almost everyone I know is either out of town, or tied up with work or family commitments this week and weekend. Really, it's almost as if it were a planned evacuation of San Francisco. I'll admit that I've never been very good with alone time, but it feels like absolute torture to be on my own for most of a midsummer weekend. Maybe I'm just being dramatic...
3) The Fountainhead has gone from "not very uplifting," to flat out depressing. She loves Howard Roark, but she can't be with him because she doesn't know herself and she can't bear to watch his excellence be crushed in an average, imperfect world. For me, the characters are only digestible on a purely symbolic level, especially when you throw in the fact that everyone in the book is obsessed with architecture. I expected this book to have a similar impact on me as Atlas Shrugged, but it's not at all.
4) The scale says I gained five pounds eating samosas and roti last weekend. Ugh. I feel like a blonde hippopotamus.
*You know who you are.
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3 comments:
I hate freakin' Ayn Rand. All her books are rampant propaganda for her bizarre and impossible philosophical ideals thinly disguised as (bad) fiction. Props for her historical research skills, I guess, but it would take serious cash money to get me to read Fountainhead or Atlas again. The only reassurance I can offer you is that both books eventually end. Then you can extend your patio with them or something.
Also: You're a blonde goddess who can totally do the lightbulb dance. Hot!
Maybe I was in a weird phase of life when I read Atlas Shrugged. I was obsessed with it and totally wanted to be Dagny Taggart. I wonder if that explains how I wound up in b-school? This one just ain't doin' it for me, however.
I had the same experience. Atlas Shrugged was almost like porn for me. Fountainhead? Not so much.
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