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Sitting at my desk writing fitfully, I listen alternately to Pink Floyd and the tapping of cold November rain...life is ridiculously sublime when you accidentally quote Guns 'N' Roses lyrics.

I find that I'm still very good at my job, but I don't much care about it. I've always found the most amazing comfort in fatalism. I don't have any submission in my soul, so pure fatalism is forever barred to me, but even the knowledge that things will happen as they will helps me a little. I can cloak myself in the knowledge that I can't fix everything, and I can deal with things so much better. I woke up with the lyrics to "Every Day Is Exactly the Same" the other day, and it seemed so apropos, because I am still inside here and a little of me always shows through.

I find there's very little that I can't solve with a smile and a wink and just the right word at the right time these days. I feel like I'm floating through the days, and it's an okay feeling.

I've got a full weekend planned, but most of the plan seems to be meta-plan. I have developed a severe aversion to leaving the house during the Black Friday / post-Thanksgiving weekend. Even more, I have an even more pronounced aversion to grocery shopping the night before Thanksgiving. Thus, I will be flitting here and there to obtain organic heirloom turkeys and good pancetta and a proper wine or two and fresh veggies and whatever else I'll need.

I wonder what it says that I've had my Thanksgiving meal planned for the better part of a month--which is when I ordered the turkey. For someone that no one thought would manage to survive to twenty-five, I'm amazingly domestic.

At least I have a new Bond movie to see tomorrow.