I become angry when I proofread. I'm in the middle of proofreading "The Mushroom Cloud Called Sadie Valentino," which is an odd title but I find myself drawn to it like sex to Marilyn Monroe. I'm immersed in remixed versions of Nina Simone.
Michelle spent five bucks on a translation of some Tibetan poetry. There was a Sufi edition as well, but she couldn't remember who the poet was. I suspect it was Rumi, and I'm inclined to check it out. Except that I can not, must not, because I have too much to read and I need to learn a little thing called self-control. I believe I had it once, but that was the womb.
Anyway, only a few more pages to perform in a dramatic reading to the mirror while I scour the lines for awkward bits or blatant typos. Then I'm going to print it out again for the final time with all the adjustments made and more importantly - I'm going to delete it off the to do list. I have two more things to add to the to do list anyway.