The Horror, the Horror

As you may tell, I published scant this whole week. For a short time I had a post (now deleted) bemoaning about some modern horror novel, Michael Laimo's Demonologist. To keep it simple I will say this much: it was trite, stupid, and dilapidated in plot, language, and originality. I should have known better than to expect a modern novel, especially 'horror', to be something more than a ripped-off plot from Lovecraft, Poe or Stoker. Then again, I wasn't truly looking for these qualities, but rather a distraction from the hectic week it has been. The trials (and tribulations) of this week, and the weeks to come, are, and will be arduous, like a hegira.

(A new word to add to my vocabulary, compliments of Merriam-Webster's Word A Day)

A full week, now, I have gone without my own car. In many respects, to the chagrin of some, I feel a joy to be liberated from the higgledy-piggledy life of a car owner. When riding the public transit buses I can delve in to a book, rather than worry about navigating the treacherous sea of incompetent GTA drivers. Plus it has been easier to save money, a feat I never knew for the last four and a half years. There are better things, and people, to make better use of my money than a rusted tin can with wheels.