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I was ready to crash immediately upon my return from downtown. There is nothing to look forward to when it comes to aging. It's just a long slide downhill, from worse to worse, until it is death at last. Ain't life grand?

While at the library, I had a tough time choosing between Dickens and Bukowski, especially since "Pulp" wasn't on the shelves. Choice does not seem to be my friend. I get paralyzed. I don't know what to do, and after all the comparing, it becomes easy for me to just chuck the whole problem, as nothing will match the perfection I have been forming in my mind.

To think: I wasn't going to stop at the library at all, but just make it a chicken friend rice trip. But now that I want to get some DVDs and I am almost finished with "1Q84", it seems sensible to get a novel while I am kicking around downtown.

After pecking a bit through "Women", I decided to go with Bukowski. Besides, I haven't read him yet and it is about time we were introduced. I don't think this is considered one of his better works, but the subject works better for me, particularly when the subject is being treated my Bukowski. Let's just say, it's not a feminist novel. Bukowski is apparently a bit Monk-ish, but more successful.

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monk222

May 2019

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