i went along to the airport yesterday, waking up at 4 in the morning. i don't go into boston enough and hardly ever alone, so i like to take these days he brings the kids across the country and then flies right back, these all day in the air days to go over to harvard square or something and wander around. yesterday i was going to go to the mfa. i've been wanting to go for, like, six months.
instead, i took a nap in the car until my toes were too cold to move, winter sucks (and they were right, december is the beginning and not the end like i thought), then went to the airport borders, then sat around all day smoking and reading and drinking coffee and just generally trying not to have anyone sit next to me and my neck hurting from the airport chairs. you know, i could have hopped onto the subway and went anywhere. i could have done anything. i had the whole day to myself (literally, he arrived back after 9 pm.), but i was perfectly content to sit alone in the airport.
i've done this quite a few times now, sitting and watching and listening and drinking and reading. i think this means i am not normal. or maybe that i am lazy. or depressed. i'm not sure, only that this is me.
so, i read perfume. i normally hate murder books, but i coundn't put it down. i'm not giving anything away, it's right in the title: story of a murderer. i liked the style a lot. and i even liked the dude, although he was one weird dude. i also started on lolita. so far, i don't like the author's style at all.