Irony, cynicism . . . and really bad eggs.

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My motivation is currently in the vicinity of Omaha, and was last seen making a beeline for Nome, affixed to something resembling a powder blue howitzer shell with a smiley face sticker on the ass-end of it.

Today, the boss called out sick (I needled him that it's a nice day out, so I wouldn't hold a round of golf against him, other than that he didn't take me with him). No biggie, I have stuff to poke and prod. Some of which has actually been poked and prodded.

I will be working remotely on the morrow, because the recent spate of hot and sticky weather (84 and muggy is -not- acceptable weather before we even kick over to Daylight Savings Time, goddammit), coupled with an extra "we really want you to buy this" financial inducement/discount on the 13 SEER a/c unit I'd looked at have conspired to become the first major upgrade to Gothopia Moon Base Alpha North. Sunday morning saw me wielding a screwdriver to swap out the old mercury balance switch for a programmable digital thermostat, which will further lower the cost of installation.

RPM class kicked both my butt and K's last night, and the discrepancy between the scale at the gym and the one at the house grows ever wider. It insists I'm 182.6, the one at home says a much kinder 173.8. Presumably the weigh-in for the office weight loss challenge will support or refute one or the other, but will probably say something unhelpful, like 178.

All of which is apropos to nothing, other than the boring background noise of the last fifty hours.

cavalorn recently said something that made me consider a few things, and which I've ultimately decided to disagree with him regarding. Irony and self-awareness may be odious and frustrating and occasionally self-defeating (sort of like smoking, in a sense), but, in much the same way, they're not going anywhere anytime soon. There is nothing to be ashamed of if you like something that is flagrantly cheesy; the problem is liking -nothing- but the flagrantly cheesy.

You can't eat nothing but cotton candy and be healthy nutritionally, and I think that the same holds true intellectually. An occasional indulgence is a treat, if not a guilty pleasure, and anyone who would look down their nose at you if you wanted a the equivalent of fried bologna sandwich is, indeed, a pretentious jackass of whatever stripe.

There is no shame in having no shame. Go ahead and the world to kiss your ass because you enjoy something lowbrow, or silly. . . but, please, let that be the change of pace, and not the norm. A rhinestone accent might be kitchy or flashy; a rhinestone catsuit, not so much.

My own writing is hindered by the fact that it's hard to get into a vacuum, away from everything I know about reality, and suspend my own disbelief before suspending anyone else's. I always assume that my audience is a cynic, ready to pounce on bad science or a single poorly-parsed notion. I don't know if this is how I read, or just how I expect to be read.