Tonight's Disparate Oddments.

I feel the urge to write something deep and meaningful – something to stir up foam-crested waves on the placid waters of routine perception – but I can’t think of anything. You know how it is when you feel hungry but you can’t think of anything you want to eat? It’s a bit like that.

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I was going to write a post predicting that the public lending institutions will exacerbate a looming debt crisis in the developed world over the next year or two, largely because the politicians will hide from the inevitable and do nothing to prevent it. But that would be boring, so that’s why I didn’t.

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Buffy’s kid sister is irritating me. I’m hoping she’ll change into a demon or something, then maybe she won’t. And I do wish they’d stop pronouncing Anya as Onya, and Tara as Taira (Giles excepted, of course.) It feels disrespectful to my ancestors and my muse.

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My office has grown colder than usual tonight, which means I’m being persuaded to use electricity that I don’t want to have to pay for. The onset of winter is worrying me more than ever this year, not just for my own sake but also for the sake of those animals kept captive in fields, the people of Ukraine whose means of producing warmth has been brutally snatched away by the wretched tyrant Putin, the homeless trying to survive in hard and draughty places, and the children of those at the bottom of a hideously divisive capitalist system forced to choose between warmth and food.

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All the commentaries on the INFJ type I see on YouTube are unanimous in one particular aspect: we’re the ones most desirous of meaningful connections with other humans, but also the ones least likely to find them. Getting by without them can sometimes prove irksome.