I’ve been conscientiously staying in this week because I’ve got a cold and I can’t be arsed getting properly sick. Having watched some tv (boring!) and caught up on email a bit (finally!) I’m getting around to blogging bits and pieces I’ve been saving on scraps of paper for a while. I’m obviously missing having someone to read the paper with on the weekend, so you, my faithful readers, will have to do. Pretend we’ve already argued about who’s turn it is to get the papers and who has to make coffee and burn the fried eggs.
Johnathan Frazen, excerpted in the Guardian Weekend magazine a few weekends ago:
“Adolescence is best enjoyed without self-consciousness, but self-consciousness, unfortunately, is its leading symptom. Even when something important happens to you, even when your heart’s getting crushed or exalted, even when you’re absorbed in building the foundations of a personality, there come these moments when you’re aware that what’s happening is not the real story. Unless you actually die, the real story is still ahead of you. This alone, this cruel mixture of consciousness and irrelevance, this built-in hollowness, is enough to account for how pissed off you are. You’re miserable and ashamed if you don’t believe your adolescent troubles matter, but you’re stupid if you do.”