20151218.0723

It should be obvious that I slept in again. I am annoyed by the repeated occurrence (it turns out that one of the days was a result of my having silenced my phone--which I use as an alarm clock, among others--despite having set the alarm), although obviously not enough to actually do anything about it. I begin to wonder if fighting the tendency to do so is futile, if I ought simply to allow myself to have the sleep and benefit from it. But I also know that I continue to have things to do, and I have not often been smart enough to cut my losses; I doubt I will cease to inveigh against my oversleeping, whether or not I do anything in the near term to prevent myself from doing so (and I know that I likely will not do so). Complaining about things is an eminently popular occupation, after all, while fixing them is decidedly not; I think I will be in good company.

Irrespective of my sleeping habits, the weather around Sherwood Cottage has offered up a taste of winter (and talking about the weather seems another popular way to pass time). Yesterday saw snowfall. None accumulated, although the ground was wet by it (and I have an idea for a riddle: From an old father to an old mother, white came down, moistening; from what is left, life can emerge in the months to come). Temperatures dropped to suit, although forecasts indicated that they will rise again in coming days. It is not winter yet, to be sure, but it is clear that the Stark words in Martin's books hold true: Winter is coming. But I doubt the winter we will face is that against which the Wall stands, and that seems to me to be a good thing. I have no Valyrian steel or obsidian ready to hand, and my fire-making is not as good as it ought perhaps to be. I am an indoorsman, after all.

That I am a nerd should be obvious, not only from the paragraph above. I have not tried to hide it in a long, long time, if I ever actually made the attempt. If I did, I know it was not successful. Spending as much time reading as I have in my life, and reading the things I read (aside from ongoing freelance work, which treats mainstream materials that may be read without concern for nerdiness in most cases) mark me clearly as such a person, and I have suffered for it at times. (I am sensitive about the issue, as I think I have shown on at least two occasions.) I suffer for it less now than in the past, to be sure, but I have to wonder how much I continue to be hindered by my particular brand of nerdiness, and I wonder how I might work to keep Ms. 8 from making the same mistakes her father did and continues to do.