Ok, remind me what I am supposed to hate about it?
I am drinking Nespresso while listening to some band called Foxygen that Spotify has recommended to me. I AM THE FUTURE.
I have had a boring cold for approximately 16 days. Its final moments are comprised of a splitting sinus headache, perhaps a sign that my sinus is desperately looking for more stuff to cough or blow out of itself and is coming up empty. It’s like a sinus version of being hangry. Grrr, I need snot, etc.
I caught up on several back issues of the New Yorker. To be clear, I do not read the fiction and will only occasionally deign to glance at the Shouts & Murmurs. I can usually make it through the restaurant review (short and snappy but only relevant to me approx. .01% of the time), Talk of the Town, I skip the economics thing, and maybe hit 1/3 of the nonfiction. Then skim the book reviews and indulge happily on the theater, TV and film reviews, and usually some light piece written by Louis Menand that makes you go, “Oh.” And the cartoon contest is so embarrassing.
I did flag one thing to go back to, about the guy who invented his own language? Probably dates from December.
And for the fifth thing, she wants you to know it’s really easy to make chicken enchiladas at home.