It's fucking hot! I mean, for November. 85 degrees? That's a little ridiculous. Of course, I kind of love it. Drinking iced-coffees, drifting off to sleep reading a novel, cleaning the kitchen, acting the real southern belle, à la liz taylor. I love how liz taylor and the other one, (scarlet o'hara), are the penultimate southern women. They're not even American! oh, how funny. if you think that's funny, i got more where that came from (my head).
Okay, I have to get into *serious* mode. I'll be sitting in on a conference on "Saving Time: Memory and Memorialization". This is no joke. This is serious, high-minded thinking. No one will stand for my funny reflections on the British take-over of the American deep South.
Oh, by the way. My $12 hour at the spa a couple of weeks ago was really nice. I realized I'm really bad at relaxing, thinking of "nothing." I'd sit in the sauna, reading the New Yorker, and think, "should I really be reading? shouldn't i be not doing anything? thinking anything?" then i'd put the magazine down and just lie there, but then I'd get all obsessed with how hot I was, you know, temperature-wise. The finest moments of the hour were lying on the bamboo slated floor and staring out the open window, which over-looked a koi pond. Cheesy, but worth twelve dollars. If you ever visit (whoever you may be) I'll take you there.
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