At the Hawaii State Library returning all three of the Baumeister books, having extracted the juice and reduced them to a dry remainder of insipid, derivative bagasse (Never use an unselfconscious metaphor). Baumeister's lucubrations on "identity crisis" are worthless pap: First he acknowledges that maybe there is no such thing; then proceeds in quite the fraudulent Jungian/Freudian manner to expostulate on and develop his non-existent non-idea with fabulist abandon. Whenever he touches on something real, like artistic creativity, he is ridiculously, pompously absurd. Disgusting.

Still waiting, waiting for my insurance settlement. Thinking about my whoopdedoo "academic career," how really I don't know what else to do; but, fortunately, I do know how to do it.