What Is This Thing Called Tuesday Hatred?
I hate stress, tension, uncertainty which engenders both of these, cowardice (in myself) and cravenness (in others), not fear but the fearful (thereby also figured as the hateful). I hate—I hate. I hate my foot’s state and I hate the fact that my powerful leg broke one of the straps on the boot I am condemned to wear, rendering it rather unuseful. I hate dealing with unicode. I hate the fact that I seem to be slowing down in my dissertating, even though the end is in sight. (I swear, it is!)
I recently re-read the paper I’ve been using this year as my writing sample and while I’m pleased that I still agree with it I marvelled at what seemed to be the unusual lucidity of the writing—as opposed to the clotted prose I’m currently turning out. Ah, me! Ah, my!
I recorded something else I hate elsewhere. I hate, too, that many Joe Frank shows are vitiated by the quick recourse he has to kind of superficially treated existentialistic themes. Frequently he’s able to save himself by, at the last minute, diverting his discussion into something totally absurd, but sometimes that doesn’t happen, and sometimes, too, one gets the impression that these saving moments are appended to, but don’t really undermine as one would like them to, those which precede.
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