It starts now.
That there is solid Milo chocolate mix, floating around in milk and my favourite cup. It didn't taste all that amazing, mind, as I'd dropped some dark chocolate buttons in the bottom too.
I'm once again beginning strange adventures in the kitchen. This is bad. It's really a sign that I'm beginning to lose it, though I suppose its a better method of stress relief than arson or whatever it is people are doing these days. I've made some pretty odd things in the last week or so, some of which turned out tasty, others not so much. Shovelling crap into my body is good for the constitution, or so I've heard. A litre tub of Flying Saucers has been finished off in the last week; I can't help the fact that they're perfect companions to my manic reading sessions.
Bedtime reading indeed. I really think I've burnt myself out on all the classic reading; that's why those fantasy books from my teenage years are sitting atop of the penguin classics. I'm going on a trip down memory lane for the next few weeks at least, going back to all those children's books of yore.
Yes, call it lazy reading or whatever you want, but they're fun books. Nothing amazingly deep or philosophical, but that's the point. No deep moral questions that need to be answered, just the good ol' narrative of good vs evil, light vs dark. Simple reading, no need to read in between lines and figure out whether or not the author has a secret agenda against oranges or whatnot.
Brooklyn is the odd one out there, I haven't actually read it, and I don't intend to. Oh, and the post title is from A Darkling Plain. Go read it.