I covered my arm in orchid juice.

I've been reading a bit more lately. Well, I've been reading less, actually--I should say that I've been reading more diverse books lately. Book that I want to read. I picked up some some Camus and Marcuse at the used bookstore yesterday, and I'm excited about having time to read philosophy that doesn't have 1800 buzz phrases attached to it in the English Department mail room right now. I'm reading House of Leaves by Mark Z Danielewski, which is a novel with multiple narrators about a house that is larger on the inside than the outside and a tattooer who's in love with a stripper that has "happiest place on earth" tattooed right at the tip top of her pussy. Her name is Thumper. One of the fiction MFAs here said that while he was reading House, he would get too scared to get up and pee. I haven't got to that part yet, but I'm hopeful. I'm also taking the time to revisit my favorite poets I've read over the past year: Frank Bidart and GM Hopkins. They're both slayers, and if you want to take a crack at some poesy, I wholeheartedly endorce either of the two. Finally, I'm reading that book about the dramatic surroundings of the creation of the OED. I can't remember what it's called, but I've wanted to read it since it came out and simply haven't had the will to spend full price for something that's not artistically-bent or canonical. (I know that's really stupid.) I found a used, tight copy last night for six dollars, and that seemed about right. It's perfect--it's nearly impossible to find an interesting, smart, easy read that one can just pick up and put down and not slip away from the narrative. And there's crazy people and murder in it. It can't be all bad. If anyone has an extra copy of the blue and brown books, please send them my way, by the way--that's on my list for the summer but I don't want to buy new. Something about reading a used philosophy book makes me feel good, especially if there's no notes.