So today in my mailbox I got a bunch of cool postcards.
That one’s my favorite. I love the idea that everyone at the post office undoubtedly saw this postcard. They wondered who the wackos were that sent and received it. My mailman, when he put this in my box, looked at Bill’s artful rendition of a cock. It looks like it’s wearing a turtleneck to me. Anyway.
Goddamn, I love getting postcards. I’ve been obsessed with postcards lately. They’re becoming a rather central theme in this book I’m writing. Too bad I can’t spend more time on that and less time on crap philosophy.
Next week I have to turn in a paper and take a final. I can’t wait for this class to end. I swear to god. What a pain in my ass. It gives me a headache, and makes me want to shake the morons who’re whining and bitching. It dawns on me now, too late, that college is fairly worthless. I don’t think I’ve learned very much. The entire point of college is to let your potential future employers (under whose supervision you will be miserable) that you can take four or five years’ worth of bullshit without cracking under the immense pain-load. It says to them, “Hire me at a higher salary because I will happily gulp down all the sweet-tasting bullshit you have to offer with a smile on my now-brown lips.”
Of course, this comes now, after four years, when all I must endure is one more year of painful poop-gulping.
Maybe I’m just bitter.
So I was re-reading this first chapter of this book I’m writing. You know, the stuff I turned in for my fiction writing class. I wrote it all in about twelve hours after going for a while without sleep. I remember, upon finishing it, being very proud. Now, I’m not so sure. Here’s the second line of the very first paragraph:
It became impossible to find things, as I would drag them back and forth between my apartment and my grandfather’s house, losing them in the back seat of my car, under beds, in my grandfather’s attic amidst fluffy pink insulation and piles of empty beer cans my uncle left there when he was a teenager in the sixties.
That’s a fucking wicked run-on sentence. I’ve been reading too much David Foster Wallace.
I still like it, though.
And now, a message from corporate America.
