From the Jill Schwartz Memorial Library here in the wilds of Connecticut, this is obscure

season 2 Frankenstein.

I am your host, your friend, your your lover literary mansplainer in chief and Georgianologist,

Michael Ian Black, with a better attitude.

Today, I have a better attitude.

Last time, I had a bad attitude.

I was all this book sucks, this podcast sucks.

And both of those things might be true, but today, I'm in a better mood about it.

Like I'm resigned.

You know what I mean?

That was that was kind of the premise of obscure to begin with, to question what it

means to be obscure.

And what I'm sitting here bitching and moaning about this podcast and my own ineptitude at

whatever it is I'm attempting to do, realize that really what I'm expressing is a kind

of fear.

That nothing I do will work out and I will end up like Jesse Pinkman in Breaking Bad.

I mean, I haven't seen all the Breaking Bad, but the parts that I've seen, you know,

he's floundering because everything he does turns to shit, you know?

Now, Jesse Pinkman is a meth head, am I a meth head?

Sure, but very different, very, very different.

And so, you know, part of my bemoaning and gnashing of teeth and wearing of various

hair shirts in a sorted fashion forward colors is that I fear my own relevance and

...