This project is becoming irksome, but not necessarily in the way you think.
What's becoming irksome is that as I go from un- to under- to employed writer these readings goad me, not because I have to do them, but because I won't be able to savor them as much as I used to. I'm squeezing them in, and I don't like it.
Not that I don't do some not-this-again eye-rolling; even the stuff I like, by the nature of my water-beetle breeziness, there's only so much I can gin up by the fifth or sixth reading. On the other hand, when I do gin something up that I'm semi-satisfied with, it's gratifying. Like Shahrazad (pedantic spelling which I learned doing this project), I've escaped death one more time.
Other than that I don't have any big thoughts on What It All Means this time. Or maybe I would, if I didn't feel so beset.