You're disappointed with me. You don't even know it, but you are. I can feel it, your disappointment, coming at me from the edges of the Internet. Or perhaps it's just all those mashed potatoes I had for dinner last night. There's a simile for all you writers out there: "his disappointment affected me like indigestion brought on by too many mashed potatoes for dinner last night." That's golden.
Which is to say, I've stopped reading magazines, effectively ending my project to read 52 different periodicals over the course of this year. The project ended a couple of months ago actually, but my guilt was such that I only just accepted it. Deep down, I always knew I wouldn't make it. The decision of which magazine to read, the procuring of said material, budgeting the time to read, keeping track of what I'd read so far...it was all too much work, more like a second job than a fun way to spend my time.
David is doing much better with his resolution to read 52 books in 52 weeks; 24 down, 28 to go. I am ashamed.
