I am not loving the new Weepies album. This worries me, but I'm also pretty sure I felt this way on the first few listens last time around, so maybe it will get better. It feels like they rushed the pace on every song just slightly, and the harmonies are getting repetitive and less charming. Also, I am a big old grump today, so whatever.

Springtime has been great but today I kept looking at people on the street to find their eyes small in their faces. It could be allergies. It could also be that spring does not magically solve every single problem as we had hoped. I bought a bunch of Brian Andreas books today in a bid to make something useful of this grouchiness, such as: melancholy. Melancholy is endlessly useful, and generally rather sweet. I've been thinking about the word "brooding," and how I can quietly reinstate it into the public vocabulary.* All of the good words for moping have been replaced by gruff, sticky words. It's high time to romanticize sadbess again if we are ever going to overcome Pfizer and their antidepressant culture. Or something. Maybe I just want to see Mary Louise Parker cast more often, and she pretty much only plays sad desperate women who turn their anguish into something active, and anxious, and brilliant.

*'I will be sequestered at home this evening with my brood.' 'The old hen is brooding again.' It feels so good in your mouth. Brood.

William Butler Yeats was a fox. "Our souls are love, and a continual farewell." Sing it, sister.