Working at a waste management plant surrounded by frothing fecal matter can make one very philosophical. It can also make one sick, as one inhales the fermenting gasses of concentrated human refuse. When you are constantly inundated with the battle cries of OSHA and BEST - not for your benefit, but for the sake of your employer's liability - you start wondering, well, what about my health? What about the long term effects on my body? Why doesn't that matter? What lottery did I win, that I get to work outdoors at a shit-plant during the winter, while others getting paid the exact same rate get a nice, clean, warm, office renovation in Manhattan? Yes, I'm whining, "Why me?" They might as well put that on my tombstone.
When I was young, I used to pretend I was a superhero whose power was surviving the cold. Zero Kelvin was heaven to me. Superman lived in the Arctic? What a pussy, my Fortress of Solitude was on Pluto. But in recent years, I've come to hate the winter. I've come to hate the dark, and the coldness that seems to permeate to deep inside my body. It never really bothered me before, why does it affect me so much now?
On the non-melodramatic side, I finally finished summarizing the remainder of my still untitled novel. Titles have come to my head, but none of them snappy. I think I'll have to choose a favorite quote from it when it's done, and then create the cover. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The next step is to make changes to the summary, so I can go back to scouring the book chapter by chapter. Dreams must have patience, while methane is inhaled.