There’s nothing left upstairs. I wish I could claim some belfry bats, but I’m afraid they’ve all gotten themselves shot out of the sky by a more advanced technology. Jess has detailed our media consumption over the last few days; now add to this my as-of-last-week-rekindled interest in an extremely out of print college textbook anthology of science fiction stories which has withstood my flirtations for the last decade or so, about five hours of interminable presentations-turned-seminar in the last couple days, and the creeping feeling that the story concept that came to mind between Scrubs and Boston Legal has been irrevocably erased, and you can imagine the precise consistency of mush my brain has reduced itself to.
So what to do? A little word sandwich ought to hit the spot.