Last week, I left you with skepticism.  After years of resistance, I picked up Jenny Odell’s How to Do Nothing. I was admittedly prepared for a predictable read.  I was ready to meet another advocate for mindfulness in these pages, repackaging the message of Eckhart Tolle and Alan Watts for

It doesn’t take long to develop. The stench of the fuck-up, I mean.  For some, it’s a near-immediate branding. You leave the womb a loud, tempestuous thing. Or else you’re quiet, brooding, sulking, strange. You laugh at inopportune times. You fail to learn the secret handshake practiced by polite society.