My wireless internet in my home is making a death rattle. My behavior without an internet connection is based on the notion that there is something to wait for, that the ghost of the internet might haunt my devices, and so I lie in bed and have burned through the entire Sailor Moon manga series like this (US first run from Mixx Comix, every volume falling apart). My time management's coming around as a result. I didn't have the internet in college, either, and it made all the difference in my work.
I've therefore been reviewing my adult, working life's days of peak productivity. I think it was when I was at the phone company and I could actually write all day, listen to audiobooks, and still accomplish the pale conceit of programming phone and internet (the irony, it has not escaped).
The internet is back now, but I am apprehensive and happy, for the moment, to be broken of my evolving addiction to Hulu Plus' Criterion trove. With cups of rose tea, I've been ignoring pressing responsibilities and lazing, enjoying Catherine Breillat's late-aughts oeuvre (Barbe bleue! For life!). This is what I thought would be waiting for me in adulthood.
Also, reading Boris Kachka's Hothouse, and what have I underlined:
But it was during the summers that he found his first fulfilling work, as a copy boy for the White Plains Reporter. At the now long-defunct paper near Sarosca Farm, the cocky then not only earned his first salary, thirty-five dollars a week, but also got to write the occasional obituary or wedding notice — "and this turned me on."