Ow.

I must be tired. I was doing my morning Googling of random thoughts, and read "pages from Canada" as "pages about Cthulhu" for a split second.

I'm glad it's Friday. But it's a sort of generic end-of-the-week glad, not an I-will-weep-if-I-spend-another-day-with-my-coworkers glad. I'd forgotten what it was like to not dread going to work. Feels good.

Lovecraft wrote poetry. It's not bad, though I will be shot if I can figure out the meter sense of "The City".

'parently alumni are traditionally entitled to be married on the grounds of their University. Useful to know.

I got into a discussion with someone from work yesterday. She asked me who my favourite writer was, and when I managed to get it down to a shortlist of three, asked why Bradbury was my first pick--very fast, the name hardly out of my mouth. (Come to think of it, of the two university students I have met in the last week, both were prone to that, though Urusla interrupted slightly more.) How do you explain why you like Bradbury to someone? It's *Bradbury*, dear god. I'm not even going to try explaining Lovecraft.

Three sessions of Deadwood last night. Halfway through the second season, and starting to worry about what happens when it runs out.