damn I'm not too bad

I was right! It was the innocuous-seeming real-estate attorney. But maybe it was just an easy book to figure out. I read a profile of the author and was quite impressed--she lost her father suddenly at the age of ten, married awfully young and had five kids of her own, lost her husband shortly thereafter, and got her bachelor's about 25 years later than most people do. By then, she was a best-selling author.

Now I'm reading Helter Skelter and really ought not to be, since I have lots of other work to do, most notably on Victorian Song and for the grad hourly I hope to get permanently. Well, permanently until I leave this hell-hole, that is. I can't wait until May.

True-crime novels can really make one sick to one's stomach, that's for sure. But it's like a car accident, you know. And then of course, I'm such a sucker for gory details that I had to Google all the pictures of the victims. That search rendered at least one post-mortem picture of each, which I thought was rather offensive to the families of the victims, even over 35 years later.

I am making beef stew and was wise enough to just put two large pieces of carrot in for the flavoring. I will remove them later, since I hate carrots but do recognize that they add something to the flavor of the stock.

I wonder what I would think of living in LA? The public library pays pretty well and I have lots of friends nearby. Hmmm. I never considered California or really anyplace farther west than Colorado. I wouldn't even consider Colorado if it wasn't my home.

Oh, and as an aside--maybe it's because it's a holiday, but there have been a shitload of lame-ass motorcyclists revving their fucking engines below my window ALL DAY while they wait for the light. Not only is this place suckey, but it seems to have an alarmingly high number of men with tiny little penises.