Neurotic

I am cleaning my apartment right now even though I should be programming but actually have five different drafts of Tumblr posts open in five different windows which is marginally nettling to my compulsive aversion to clutter that somehow inevitably is overcome by entropy as my desktop degrades into full-on dishevelment regardless.

Time is the factor here. More specifically that there isn’t any, but that doesn’t cut the number of things I need or want to do in a particular day. I have code to debug, projects to manage, and specifications to write. Why is constructing rambling prose procrastination and not an essential part of the daily routine?

But my spare time is finite and while it would be nice to learn Haskell and maybe tell you about it I would need to teach myself monads first and I just don’t have time for that and besides it kind of sounds dirty. Instead I have unread novels, essays, treatises, critiques, interviews, theses, and monographs in stacks whose growing strata collect dust and apathy. It is precisely this moment that I start to wonder what kind of programmer I am given my preference for reading Foucault, Eco, Venturi, Perec, Jacobs, Bringhurst, or the late-great-DFW over staring at a screenful of parentheses and semicolons and square brackets. But maybe I have it backwards. What if we should be suspicious of a developer who doesn’t have that thirst?