reading is totally mental

This is the problem, when you do not write promptly about the things you have been reading. You sit down to make a list of them so you can pound through one by one, sharing your important thoughts and your vital feelings about Literature and Life, and then you realize you can't remember a goddamn thing you read in the past month, though you know you read things because that is what you do, with the things and the reading them, and there were books and there was a little bit of hate and you always enjoy to remember the things you hate because that is the kind of blackened lump of charcoaled muscle and sinew you carry around in your chest, except that you can't remember anything because life, of late, has been Very Busy.

But you press on, because you are tough and brave like that, and you sweat and toil and close your eyes and think very, very hard, and this is the list you come up with:

1. Clarence Major – One Flesh
   
2. Mr. Maybe
   
3. Uh.
   
4. Archer's Goon!
   
5. Something something.
   
6. Fuck.
   

And you're a little ashamed of yourself.

Also, did I finish reading The Knives in My Ass? I did not. Because I am very busy and important! And despite the way I like things that are hateful, I did not have the energy to spend five hundred pages both reading and composing rhyming ballads of loathing to Robert Jordan in my soul.