It's been busy around here, again a week passed and I feel like I have nothing to show for it.
Perhaps a little clean laundry, but that hardly counts.

I've read a few good books and one clunker, chicklit piece of fluff.
The devil all the time   by Donald Ray Pollock was so intense it gave me nightmares.
The characters are brutal and brutalized and I get shivers just thinking of the story.  Well written but not for the weak stomached.
The Outlaw Album oddly enough was right along the same lines, a collection of stories, some riveting some just so, so.
If you are like me and you like to get into people's heads and see what makes them tick, and are fascinated by  dysfunction, then these are good choices.

Town House by Tish Cohen, was the fluffy one.  The writing is painfully contrived, but the idea of the story is ok.  I kept reading, hoping the phoniness of the author would wear off.

My cat has developed the habit of chewing the spines of hardbound books, which is disturbing.  Most of my nice cookbooks now bear the marks of her wrath.  I have no idea how to make her stop. I wonder if it has something to do with the presence of the new dog?  She did it a little all along, but has taken it to a whole new level recently, wiping out Martha Stewart and Laurel's Kitchen almost completely.  She spared Julia Child, only because Julia is in paperback.

We started watching an absurd, comic series called Delocated    which made me laugh out loud.

So lots of links here and not much substance.  That is what I seem to have time for.

Freyja is calling me from the bath, needing something that is out of reach, no doubt.