I learned something new about myself, I hate James Joyce.

I wish I could say that I have some sort of writers block, but in all honesty, there has just been nothing to write about. My days are filled with forcing myself to watch the sixth season of " The Office" and laughing more because I want it to be funny than any actual comedic writing. Seth and I have been trying to keep busy with various festivals about town. Which have boiled down to "The Feast of the Hunters Moon" (an event where everything being sold has the prefix "ye olde".) And the local version of Oktoberfest, which is really just like the poor mans Fourth of July in October.
Ulysses defeated me. I got 100 pages in, and still had no idea why anyone would consider this a great piece of literature. Apparently it is a comparison to Homer's Odysseus.... Fine. Needless to say I will not be celebrating Blooms day with the Joyce fans come this June. I may be proclaiming myself to be an ignoramus, but I have vowed to never pick up another work by James Joyce for the remainder of my days. While in San Francisco I spoke with one of my cousin's friends, who is a literature professor at Cornell, who suggested that I may not relate to the writers on the Modern Library's Top 100 list because they are mostly middle aged white men who write about cheating on their wives, but she could not suggest an alternate list that would be more suited to my faithfully married young white unemployed tastes. I did some research of my own and found that Feminista! has put out a top 100 novels by female authors. Already I am much impressed, I just finished the Bastard out of Carolina, which was a story, with a plot, and characters who you could identify with. Well, maybe not me, as I have never lived in South Carolina, and I do know who my father is...