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Hey look, I found my patron saint in an antique store in New Hampshire this week. If this were 2006 and bathroom mirror cell phone self portraits were actually oil paintings, and instead of showing what you really looked like they showed a metaphoric version of how you feel/how you outwardly manifest your desired appearance to the world, then this would totally be my profile pic. Friend me!
Actually don't. And since no one asked, the real patron saint of PTSOTL, it is definitely important for me to point out, is the guy speaking below in yonder box quote. Kind of an embarrassing character to draw inspiration from, as he's a despicable cretin, but at least he knows it.
I was thinking about this book tonight on my way back from the mountains (no internet fucking mountains) when I stopped at the only place I could find to break my fast, a strip mall Chili's. If that's not a grim enough purgatory to get a brother feeling existential in between thin salty wafer scoops of watery tomato liquid while leaning on a bar top kissed by a thousand bacon-basted finger prints, then I don't know what existential means. Actually, I still don't think I do.
Back when I cared about tricking people into thinking I was smart I talked about a lot. If you're the type of asshole who hasn't read it, well...
Well... that's just great and OK by me because honestly no one gives a shit what books anyone else has read. Except for people who are waiting for you to stop talking about whatever book it is you just read so they can start talking about whatever book it is they just read when it's their turn to swing the oppressive cultural-word-anvil faceward.
Anyway, read it or don't. Shit is free right . There are better things to do with your time. Probably. Consider this our mission statement around here. Either that or 'Yesterday's Buzzfeed Links Tomorrow.'
But do you know, gentlemen, what was the chief point about my spite? Why, the whole point, the real sting of it lay in the fact that continually, even in the moment of the acutest spleen, I was inwardly conscious with shame that I was not only not a spiteful but not even an embittered man, that I was simply scaring sparrows at random and amusing myself by it. I might foam at the mouth, but bring me a doll to play with, give me a cup of tea with sugar in it, and maybe I should be appeased. I might even be genuinely touched, though probably I should grind my teeth at myself afterwards and lie awake at night with shame for months after. That was my way.
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1 comment:
That is one sexy clown.
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