My Little Golden Book of Phobias

I have a terrible problem. I haven't read last week's NYT and now there's another one, fresh from it's blue plastic bag, oh and the book review and magazine section from 2 weeks ago. Even when I weed out the sports, financial and travel sections, there is still a towering pile of unread NYT. And I'm leaving tomorrow for silence and next week there will be ANOTHER NYT to read next Sunday. More than any other backsliding, not keeping up with the paper is a dread sin. Because I hardly know what is going on in the big world, the NYT is my source, my family friend who comes over to tell me I really must get out more and stop wearing those awful baggy pants in the yard and why o why do you insist on not bathing. I mean really, why bathe if all you plan to do that day is muck about in the garden, getting mud inside your gloves and sweating all over the mashed leaves and dead morning glory while trying to wrassle them into those stupid paper bags just for the purpose of 'green' waste.

So.

It's the new lover. Besides being all confused during the day and not knowing what day or time it is or if you're supposed to go to work or not, there's the issue of non-sleep and having someone else beside you when you wake up, stealing the covers and making you laugh so hard you fall out of bed. All the cats come up and want some of the mirth. All three of them. They feel neglected and you know what. I don't give a shit. I deserve this. We all do.

Besides, the NYT has the most ridiculous ads in the world. An article about starving Haitians next to an ad for a 5 zillion dollar fur coat draped over an anorexic 16 year old. It's a perfect mind fuck.