And so, in boxers and tank top (sans bra, sans glasses, sans all), I swallowed the last of some unsurprisingly bitter licorice, and tried to see if there was any good news in that issue of the New York Times that's been on my kitchen table since February 23rd.
There wasn't.
I've read it every day since February 23rd. I used to think that it was out of habit, but I know habits.
I bite my nails - that's a habit. Nuns wear habits. This isn't like either of those habits.
But I keep reading and re-reading, because, one of these days, I know that I'll come upon an article I missed: the only article in the world (of the New York Times [New York Edition {on February 23rd, 2010}]) with good news.
And maybe I'll become so sick of this search and so desperate for good news that I'll find it somewhere else in this paper.
It will, instead, be a typo.
Or a delightfully alliterative name in the masthead.
Or a petrified cornflake from February 23rd's breakfast that obscures a very large and very important-sounding word in an Op-Ed piece.
Because I can do without actual good news when I'm preoccupied by the amusement that comes with such small things.
(And those things are all quite small.)
"It's sensible this way," I'll tell myself, as I have since February 23rd. "It's better."
Because good news is big.
And I've been told that my kitchen is cramped.
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