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I've been in a weird mood all day. As evidence: I really enjoyed the profile section of the New Yorker about Miuccia Prada that I started reading last night and finished this afternoon. It isn't online since the magazine is hopelessly quirky about online content. I've heard that it's up to the authors to decide how long (or if) a piece is available on the web. In itself, this is neat, but inconvenient.
I don't even know if the story is that good.
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Last night at the pub quiz we were sitting downwind of two chain smokers, yet we were unable to answer a question about the definition of misocapnist.
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The music at Bauhaus is remarkably bad (at least for those of us who do not ♥ the 80s). Yet abandoning my office to work here for a little while feels like a step in the right direction. Now, though, I feel compelled to fold my laundry. What a stupid day.
I don't even know if the story is that good.
--
Last night at the pub quiz we were sitting downwind of two chain smokers, yet we were unable to answer a question about the definition of misocapnist.
--
The music at Bauhaus is remarkably bad (at least for those of us who do not ♥ the 80s). Yet abandoning my office to work here for a little while feels like a step in the right direction. Now, though, I feel compelled to fold my laundry. What a stupid day.
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