A few days ago, like many days, I went to a cafe with my computer to write. Afterwards, I went to the bookstore, bought several books, including Pynchon’s latest six-ton opus. I carried this all around in my backpack for several hours, having a lovely drink on the rubble slopes of Friedrichshain Volkspark with Aimee. By the time I arrived home, the twinge in my back had turned to actual pain, and for the last few days I have been groaning like an old man, sleeping poorly as I turn over and wake up, popping Advil like skittles.

I think the key there is “old man.” Sigh… Pynchon better be worth it.