You look out into the sky, and there’s these galaxies. There’s this one galaxy, out there, where it’s all going on. The sci-fi stuff, the interstellar civilizations, the starships and the fantastic science and the wars. And we’re off in this quiet corner of the Universe, where not much is going on, where all we can do is just keep looking out at the wonder beyond our reach, like a wallflower at a party.
That others may dwell deep, deep within the ones they love, drink from the soft cup of at the creamy lake at the center of the Object of Passion, while I am fated forever only to intuit the presence of deep recesses while I poke my nose, as it were, merely into the foyer of the Great House of Love, agitate briefly, and make a small mess on the doormat, pisses me off to no small degree.
The Broom of the System, David Foster Wallace.
Sunday afternoon. Laundry. Beer. Some overwhelming sense of dissatisfaction.
Pictures of drinks beside their sugar equivalents in food. Some you expect but most are quite shocking.
There’s some apples/oranges dishonesty present here, given that the “equivalent” foods are only tracking sugar content. But still. Don’t drink any of these.