Lame, lame, lame.

Octavia Butler died Friday at the age of 58. This makes me very sad. I didn't always like her books, but they always made me feel challenged and uncomfortable, which means I was thinking. I only learned from the obit that she was local and a non-driver, so we may have riden the same buses. Ships passing in the night.

Also the cat was clawing the carpet right next to me trying to get a reaction, so I held her down by the shoulders and neck, and she held still for a bit and then made a little squeak sound that sounded like "ack I can't breathe!"... and I just meant to say I'm bigger than you, not I keel you, and now I'm afraid that I've accidentally broken trust and she'll be scared of me.

Also I need to pick a new advisor and I'm fretting. Not such a good day from the inside of my head, though the weather is pleasant.