Time was I wasted time reading the comments on wank communities, but they're all dead now. Time was I wasted time reading the comments on newspaper articles, but the local ones are behind paywalls and the Guardian's layout hurts my eyes. Time was I wasted time playing online solitaire and I still do. What these have in common is that they're all really depressing activities.

Which is to say, it's a cold rainy Sunday and I hurt from the cold and rain and I don't want to read anything that I have on the go-- Pico Iyer's deep study of the Dalai Lama or Joan Didion's Year of Magical Thinking-- because both are depressing. The LM Montgomery I just finished was depressing- the airless caste-ridden insular (literally) world of 1920s PEI. So I'm reading a gruesome police procedural murder mystery modelled on the Black Dahlia killings.

This is why I've come to dislike weekends.