Say what?
Sometimes I feel like books choose me. I'm in the middle of two books right now, "Dharma bums" and "Closing Time". I almost never get into the middle of two books. I just can't seem to finish either one. One day I'm wandering around smoking weed and making up poetry and the next I'm talking nonsense, reliving my war days and dying of cancer. And someone has to take responsibility for choosing these works. It's not me.
I'm tempted to consume a fruity alcholic drink and watch TV until I fall asleep, perhaps with my shirt unbuttoned and one sock part way off.