I have successfully seen Bathsheba to the airport and am officially friendless until Monday. She kindly lent Ted Chiang�s Stories of Your Life and Others to me during her absence and I have just spent my break flipping through it. Ted Chiang is a mystery to me. Who is he? Where did he come from? What does he do? How old is he? What does he look like? Will he marry me? In 10 years he seems to have written only 8 stories. And yet he is currently the most decorated young SF writer. To wit: 2 Nebula Awards, the Asimov�s Science Fiction magazine reader poll, the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award, the Sidewise Award for alternate history, the John W. Campbell Award for best new writer, and inclusion in the Year�s Best SF. �Story of Your Life� is perhaps one of the best short stories I have ever read�I think it�s almost a shame that it�s been neatly folded into the world of SF, because I believe it deserves a wider readership. Same with Ted Chiang�even though this is his first book and it is composed primarily of previously published short stories. He is a phenomenally slow writer. But he�s worth the wait. And so this weekend I will further interrupt my stalled reading of various other books in order to consume this one. My apologies Kathryn Harrison, Zadie Smith, W.G. Sebald, Halldor Laxness. I will atone in time. Yeah, yeah, I know. Promises, promises.

It�s cold today. I�m happy about this. It, too, is wet. How thrilling. How I wish I were home, curled round some warm creatures, eating soup, reading.

My mother and I spent last night concocting a new money making scheme for me. Me mum is a therapist and has a part-time private practice (to which she intends to devote more time once she is done with her full-time sucky job) and I will soon be her insurance billing person. I don�t understand any of this but she seems to think it will be a wonderful melding of talents and needs and so I throw my full support behind the plan. Nothing will be done, most likely, until August or September, but hope is finally in sight, and I will, therefore, not do any or all of the following (for now): a. get a roommate, b. move, c. declare bankruptcy, d. grovel unsuccessfully at the feet of the English Dept. PTB, e. sell my soul by writing term papers for bad and lazy students, f. sell my body on the streets.

Hopefully.

In other news, Buddy Black and Harold have become fast friends. They are nearly of a size and Buddy snuffles all over Harold, which Harold, rightly it seems, takes as an invitation to groom groom groom. They slept together last night, with me. Bash, I fear, is feeling a bit forlorn. He didn�t even sleep in my room last night�once he saw Buddy on the bed he slunk back off into the living room. Ah Bash. We are a pair of mopey dopes.

Oh dear. After the previous two entries here, which I find dissatisfyingly chatty and mundane and shallow, I had hoped for better today. Sometimes I make myself ill. Sometimes I�m such a ho. Remind me, Bathsheba, to write down the Ho Treatise soon. For now, I�ve filed my notes in with the working draft of my theory of everything. Other forthcoming treatises from that file: The Intersection of Television, Time, and Pre-pre-menopause (or, How Advertising Butt-fucked a Nation of Dopes); Not My Kid Not My Baby, He�s my Dog; On the Importance of Hiding Places and Maps; Daniel-son: Younger Brother as Metaphor; Thwarting the Psycho-killer Gene; Gender is Stupid except I�m a Feminist.

Probably I�ll never write any of these down. Just call me lazy bones Jones. Actually, come to think of it, I hope I never write any of these down. Actually, come to think of it, I wish I weren�t such a shallow self-absorbed fuck. Actually, come to think of it I better shut the hell up before this gets any worse.