I'm fairly certain I recently passed a rather pathetic tipping point, and now own more unread books and unwatched DVDs than my remaining lifespan will be able to sustain. I can't possibly read all these pages or watch all these movies before the grim reaper comes knocking. The bastard things are going to outlive me. It's not fair. They can't even breathe.

Perhaps astrophysics stories should come with a little warning. Just as graphically violent news reports tend to be preceded by a quick disclaimer advising squeamish viewers that the following footage contains shots of protestors hurling their own severed kneecaps at riot police - or whatever - maybe brain-mangling science reports likely to leave you nursing an unpleasant existensial bruise for several hours should be flagged as equally hazardous. How can I flip channels and enjoy Midsomer Murders once I've been reminded of the crushing futility of everything? I can't get worked up about the murders in that kind of mood. Yeah, kill him. And her. And them. Fuck it. It's all just atoms in a vortex.