It was a pun, c'mon

I marvel at my remarkable ability to persevere at pastimes which are blatantly detrimental to my cosmic aspirations. Like my strange new habit of watching South Park reruns before going to bed. Or staring at computer screens. Ho, I have even taken up walking since my left knee had started giving me trouble. My conscience also whispers "alcohol", but no, conscience, bad conscience, you don't know what you are whispering about. There is a difference between being an awesome robot and a sober miserable ape. Sobriety, I believe, should also be approached with moderation. But to the point. The most vicious tit I had been trying to wean myself from is indulging (avariciously) in Pitchfork's BNM roster. I love it, of course, but music really jams thinking. So I have been experimenting with alternative aural pleasures. On the wave of I-have-watched-all-seasons-of-30-Rock-again I have downloaded an audio book of Tina Fey's selective autobiography and consumed it all in several sessions of dinner cooking. I have been listening to audiobooked autobiographies ever since. It is quite marvelous. On the one hand, you get some rich celebrity gossip (currently: Hemingway's Movable Feast), and on the other it is not so important that you can't miss a passage over whatever is sizzling on your frying pan. Hemingway, by the way, gives marvelous writing tips and inspirational advice on how to be poor and happy in Paris.