What to Write...What to Write

...would be what I thought whilst walking the library to return the following:

* One book of essays called Maybe Baby (sucked)
* That book where a blogger cooks all Julia Child's recipes (pretty good)
* A Bill Bryson book on CD, the one where he writes about England (read by the same irritating Brit who narrated a Peter Mayle book on CD I took out for the last time I drove to Vermont. Now I should have known I was going to fucking hate Peter Mayle, but you know what made me fucking hate him more? Hearing him read by a guy with an insipid British accent.) (also, note to my British readers: I don't hate all British accents, just this fellow in particular.)
* Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, on CD (meh)
* Vogue Knitting (decent)

On my way to the library I passed a car accident at the end of my block. It's the first I've seen and honestly I am surprised there haven't been more. People don't notice the stop sign. Everyone seemed OK but one girl had driven her car through a chain link fence.

As I'm in a nature mode and a missing NH mode I took out from the library a series of essays on country living by Maxine Kumin and I also borrowed a Woody Allen movie starring that snot-ass bitch Scarlett Johansson ("I think I look like a boy..." she was recently quoted as saying. Shove it, Scar.) and the v.v.v.V attractive Jonathan Rhys-Meyers.

Coming home today I felt a little panicky on the train and almost had to get off a couple of stops early because it was crowded and I started to feel that sort of vroooom feeling you get when you have panic attacks, where your heart starts racing and you just get all aiyeeeeeeeeeee, but I was able to calm myself down. Really I'm just anxious about the upcoming change in my life, that being really committing to finding a good job, and I have a lot of issues around that. A. Lot.

But in the grand scheme of things everything is really pretty groovy.