Twelve books, four parts

Work has been rather light today. Although there have been lots of files that needed to be issued and I've had to translate one document after another, I feel neither stressed nor exhausted (still feeling dizzy though, its cause still unidentified). There is a certain repetitiveness about this job that is both comforting and numbing. A delightful combination really. I mentioned when I first started working here that I took this job fully aware of its potential tediousness but because I had found myself with changing priorities, I felt it necessary to relocate myself to a quieter and stabler work environment with fixed rules and reliable hours, so I could think and figure out what I want to do next.

A friend rang me this morning to ask me if I was still interested in working in advertising (I asked him if they were hiring when I first thought of changing jobs), he said they need to fill a position in the creative department. I liiiiike that a lot. He's going to send me an email with more details.

An advertising job. Goodbye quiet introspective time and hello long hours. I've got another friend in advertising, she takes German classes too but at a higher level. She's hardly in class. Why? Because of work. But she does look fabulous. I want to look fabulous. I need to reflect on this further.

Oh yeah why the title? I started reading The Brothers Karamazov online. At work. I've been meaning to read that for about three years now. Hihi. I've finished the first book. It's not as long as it sounds. Well actually I don't know. So far, I've been introduced to a profligate father and his sons from two wives. That's always a good start to any story. Oh yeah and a rather extensive account about monasteries in Russia at the time. Maybe just a tad too much for my taste although Dostoevksy does write it in a lovely way. Not like the 20 pages (it felt like it) Steinbeck devotes on describing a goddamn tumbleweed in The Grapes of Wrath. Needless to say I did not get past the tumbleweed. Some guy I dated at uni gave me a copy in the hopes of educating me because according to him I behaved "like a stupid person". Whatever that means. Hee he was a character all right. Shit poet, but yeah a character. The book sits dusty on my shelf. Oh and apparently only the refined mind can appreciate Steinbeck. At least according to a professor I had years ago. I guess I don't make the cut haha. He was a bit of a shit too.