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My coworker brought a bird to work on Friday. I don't believe I should have to stay at work when I have to watch an animal shit on a coworker.

This afternoon, I grappled with the schism between my writing talent and my motivation to use it. I am talented; I must immodestly admit that. However, I have never had much desire to actually exercise talents that I know I have--once I know I can do something, actually doing it becomes more or less just manual labor. So I generate interesting idea after interesting idea, and I do nothing with them. I try intermittently, desultorily, but I never really follow through. In turn, this triggers the one bit of guilt that I carry: that I was gifted with so much mind and use it so sparingly.

In the end, I always decide that if we don't have enough problems, we as people will invent a few. Talent guilt seems to be my sole vice.

For now, I content myself to watch V for Vendetta and ponder whether Hugo Weaving's badassitude trumps that vaguely retarded look that Natalie Portman gets every time she tries to deliver a line. Not that I wouldn't mount her; I'd just do it from behind.