So it's a bizarre Sunday -- raining a mite too hard to walk down the road to pick up trash, or finish filling my ginormous compost bin with the last of last year's vines and clippings. All I can do is finish the dishes, try to keep the fire going (goddamn green oak), and listen to music. Maybe I'll poke away at my stalled novel.

All the same, I don't feel like blogging. Which sucks, because thanks to a very generous-hearted gentleman (who will remain anonymous until he says he'd rather not), I'm reminded that it's about time to run another campaign to sucker people into buying things for my branch of the local public library, which I run. And on behalf of this effort, I was going to do something super clever and hilarious, maybe a Battlestar Galactica/Passions mash-up.

But my heart isn't in it. I can't seem to get enough caffeine into me today -- head still feels strangely like it's filled with congealing cement. I'm listening to Stars, Okkervil River, PJ Harvey, et alia, about half an inch from crying, an echo of the chill drizzle that cascades against the gray-lit window and swells the rocky arroyo just beyond. Weird. Even the Arctic Monkeys' music seems to pique my tristesse today; Morningwood's, my anger... So instead, I'm going to steal from Dexter's post from yesterday, because it really, really bears repeating:

Requires indignation.

This, not so much.

Learn to get your fucking priorities straight, right-wing America (I'm looking at you, K-Lo.)