Dear Emma,
My name is XXXXX. I hope this letter finds you well. Like you, I grew up in XXXXX but I now live in Brooklyn, which is part of New York City. New York is much bigger than XXXXX. It’s very crowded, and people walk very fast. I ride the subway to work every day and I don’t own a car. I miss driving, but I’m glad I don’t have to deal with traffic on my way to work.
I work for a book publisher. That's a company that makes books. My job is to help create book covers. To do that I have to wake up early every morning and sit in a little cube all day while people come by and bother me. For this I am poorly compensated.
From time to time throughout the work day, I pause to eye my letter opener, wondering idly what it would feel like to jam it into my hand. Sometimes I get so far as picking it up, but I am usually interrupted before I can even reach for it.
I'm sure you know this tedium, Emma. It's very much like the feeling of finishing a test early except that it never stops. No one else ever finishes the test. We all go home and when we return the next day, everyone else continues the test, and the cycle repeats uninterrupted save for the occasional moron leaning in to ask for the answer to a question they should already know.
I do this for 8 hours at a time. Remember nap time? Eight hours is like 16 nap times together.
Don't worry if this sounds boring, Emma. In this economy I would gratefully accept a position servicing bus stop drifters in exchange for an almost-living wage. And it's not all bad. The alienation that prevents me from making any lasting attachments with other people has allowed me free time to pursue my hobbies, like gun collecting. And pornography.
I've also become quite adept at sublimating my impotent rage into activities like "blogging" while maintaining an outwardly cool facade of detached amusement and knowitallism. This is called being a hipster.
Well, it's time for me to get back to work and its accompanying sense of existential horror. I don’t know if you are supposed to write back. If so, I’m curious what your favorite subject in school is and what you want to be when you grow up. Remember to pay attention and work hard in school!
Sincerely,
XXXXX
[Co-written with M. T. ]
Monday, November 9, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Pay Up, Little, Brown
Gawker reports today that a writer named Jordan Scott has accused Stephanie Meyer's of plagiarizing matrimonial and sex scenes in Breaking Dawn from her own vampire novel, The Nocturne. After reading the evidence provided, I have come to realize that I, too, am one of Meyer's victims. Check out these suspicious similarities between excerpts of Twilight and my high school journal. The evidence speaks for itself.
Twilight
I felt a surge of pity, and relief. Pity because, as beautiful as they were, they were outsiders, clearly not accepted. Relief that I wasn’t the only newcomer here, and certainly not the most interesting by any standard.
My Journal
I saw Calvin Kole* at lunch today. He is sooo hottt! Too bad he doesn’t know I’m alive. I hate Tammy Godfrey with the power of a thousand flaming suns, and the rest of her cheerleader bitch friends.
Sigh.
__________
Twilight
I’d noticed that his eyes were black – coal black.
My Journal
Calvin Kole's eyes are blue – ice blue. Sigh.
__________
Twilight
His skin, white despite the faint flush from yesterday’s hunting trip, literally sparkled, like thousands of tiny diamonds were embedded in the surface.
My Journal
I want to have sex with Calvin Kole.
Oh yeah, and his skin is sparkly.
__________
Twilight
I sat without moving, more frightened of him than I had ever been. I’d never seen him so completely freed of that carefully cultivated facade. He’d never been less human… or more beautiful.
My Journal
Went to hockey game with Beth last night. Calvin Kole scored five points. He is so beautiful. He moves with the liquid grace and freedom of an ice skating bear, and plays with the same ferocity. He spits a lot, too.
*Some names have been changed to protect my pride.
Twilight
I felt a surge of pity, and relief. Pity because, as beautiful as they were, they were outsiders, clearly not accepted. Relief that I wasn’t the only newcomer here, and certainly not the most interesting by any standard.
My Journal
I saw Calvin Kole* at lunch today. He is sooo hottt! Too bad he doesn’t know I’m alive. I hate Tammy Godfrey with the power of a thousand flaming suns, and the rest of her cheerleader bitch friends.
Sigh.
__________
Twilight
I’d noticed that his eyes were black – coal black.
My Journal
Calvin Kole's eyes are blue – ice blue. Sigh.
__________
Twilight
His skin, white despite the faint flush from yesterday’s hunting trip, literally sparkled, like thousands of tiny diamonds were embedded in the surface.
My Journal
I want to have sex with Calvin Kole.
Oh yeah, and his skin is sparkly.
__________
Twilight
I sat without moving, more frightened of him than I had ever been. I’d never seen him so completely freed of that carefully cultivated facade. He’d never been less human… or more beautiful.
My Journal
Went to hockey game with Beth last night. Calvin Kole scored five points. He is so beautiful. He moves with the liquid grace and freedom of an ice skating bear, and plays with the same ferocity. He spits a lot, too.
*Some names have been changed to protect my pride.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Winner!
Cakewrecks is having a contest to caption this picture:
I've submitted an entry that I think has raised the general tone of the comments. You should do the same.
I've submitted an entry that I think has raised the general tone of the comments. You should do the same.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Things I Might Worry About If I Were a Robot
- Rust
- Electrical surges
- My place in the singularity
- Bigger, stronger robots
- Robo-AIDS
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Jerks of the Sea: A Reprise
Are Blue Whales Jerks? Yes.
"You should lay off the krill, babe.
You've put on some weight."
Don't ever fall for
Cyanobacteria.
They'll just break your heart.
"Your mesoglea
must be jelly, because jam
don't contract like that."
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Lame Urban Legends
#3
This guy is driving through Alabama and meets these strangers who invite him to go to a party where he gets absolutely hammered and blacks out. He wakes up the next morning completely disoriented and doesn’t know where he is. He has this sharp pain in his lower back and when he cranes his head around he can see a fresh bandage has been taped there. A doctor tells him that last night his kidney was surgically removed. Then a nurse comes in and says that he was lucky he wrecked his car so close to the hospital or he would have died before they could remove his crushed kidney.
Don't drink and drive.
#4
Did you hear that this guy just escaped from the state mental hospital? It's on all the news stations. And, get this, he has a hook (!) for a hand--one of those prosthetic hook-things that can grab and stuff. Guy lost his real hand in Kabul. Pretty sad actually. He has crazybad PTSD. Wanna go make out in the woods?
This guy is driving through Alabama and meets these strangers who invite him to go to a party where he gets absolutely hammered and blacks out. He wakes up the next morning completely disoriented and doesn’t know where he is. He has this sharp pain in his lower back and when he cranes his head around he can see a fresh bandage has been taped there. A doctor tells him that last night his kidney was surgically removed. Then a nurse comes in and says that he was lucky he wrecked his car so close to the hospital or he would have died before they could remove his crushed kidney.
Don't drink and drive.
#4
Did you hear that this guy just escaped from the state mental hospital? It's on all the news stations. And, get this, he has a hook (!) for a hand--one of those prosthetic hook-things that can grab and stuff. Guy lost his real hand in Kabul. Pretty sad actually. He has crazybad PTSD. Wanna go make out in the woods?
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Lame Urban Legends
#1.
So the story goes that there was once this extremely ancient hideous crone who lived in that farmhouse on Tucker Road--the one that's all falling apart now. So yeah, she lived there and she had this pear tree out front that grew crazy mad pears that everyone wanted to eat but she was always like "Don't touch my pears" when kids would come by. "Don't touch my pears!" "Don't touch my pears!" I'm sure it got really old after a while. So then like these two kids decided, eff it, we want some pears, so they waited until it got dark and then crept super-silently to the crone's house and proceeded to stuff themselves with pears until they almost horked. Almost. And then they high-fived each other and went back home.
But the next day, while the kids were laying home sick in bed from having eaten such a prodigious amount of pears the night before, the old crone came into the house. Their parents were out in the field or some shit. Right. So she comes into the house and they can hear her, over and over again, saying "Who ate my pears? Who ate my pears?" And they are seriously freaked out, because this woman is seriously ancient and seriously ugly and therefore must be seriously evil. They can hear her in the kitchen: Who ate my pears? Who ate my pears? Then they can hear her on the bottom stair: Who ate my pears? Who ate my pears? Then she is at the end of the hallway, still like Who ate my pears? Who ate my pears? And then, oh and the kids are just about wetting the bed because they are so scared that this evil witch is going to come into the room and stab them or disembowel them or something, and then the door opens sloooooooooowly and then the witch is in the doorway! (!!!) And then she is at the foot of the bed that the kids are in (I forgot to mention that they shared a bed since it's old timey or they were poor or something) she is at the foot of the bed and the kids are crying under the covers WHO ATE MY PEARS? WHO ATE MY PEARS? And then she yanks the blanket off the bed, exposing the two crying, snotty, shaking kids and she says, "Listen you little bastards, I was going to use those pears to make preserves for the jelly competition at the fair in September, which I have won four years in a row, but now I don't have enough pears to make it, so thank you for ruining one of the few pleasures left to an old woman like myself. I hope you both feel really bad about what you've done," and then she left.
AND if you go into that farm house on Tucker Road, it's said you can still hear the sounds of her quietly weeping into the empty mason jars that had been intended to hold all her prize-winning pear preserves.
True Story
#2
My cousin goes to Loyalla and she knows this couple that went to Mexico for spring break and the whole time they were there, the girl was just bitching and moaning about how much she wanted to get one of those nasty hairless Mexican dogs, and she just kept at it for days until her boyfriend was ready to kill himself. So he finally was like, OK, Get a damn dog, which she did. She bought him from one of those "chicle chicle" kids for about $5 American and she named it Chalupa. Then they went back to Chicago and they had a dinner party and one of the guests there was a veterinarian, so when the woman brought the dog out to meet everyone, he was like, "OH MY GOD!!! I hate to tell you guys this, but this dog is severely malnourished. Poor thing. You should put him on a special diet. I'll write down what you need to buy at the store."
So the story goes that there was once this extremely ancient hideous crone who lived in that farmhouse on Tucker Road--the one that's all falling apart now. So yeah, she lived there and she had this pear tree out front that grew crazy mad pears that everyone wanted to eat but she was always like "Don't touch my pears" when kids would come by. "Don't touch my pears!" "Don't touch my pears!" I'm sure it got really old after a while. So then like these two kids decided, eff it, we want some pears, so they waited until it got dark and then crept super-silently to the crone's house and proceeded to stuff themselves with pears until they almost horked. Almost. And then they high-fived each other and went back home.
But the next day, while the kids were laying home sick in bed from having eaten such a prodigious amount of pears the night before, the old crone came into the house. Their parents were out in the field or some shit. Right. So she comes into the house and they can hear her, over and over again, saying "Who ate my pears? Who ate my pears?" And they are seriously freaked out, because this woman is seriously ancient and seriously ugly and therefore must be seriously evil. They can hear her in the kitchen: Who ate my pears? Who ate my pears? Then they can hear her on the bottom stair: Who ate my pears? Who ate my pears? Then she is at the end of the hallway, still like Who ate my pears? Who ate my pears? And then, oh and the kids are just about wetting the bed because they are so scared that this evil witch is going to come into the room and stab them or disembowel them or something, and then the door opens sloooooooooowly and then the witch is in the doorway! (!!!) And then she is at the foot of the bed that the kids are in (I forgot to mention that they shared a bed since it's old timey or they were poor or something) she is at the foot of the bed and the kids are crying under the covers WHO ATE MY PEARS? WHO ATE MY PEARS? And then she yanks the blanket off the bed, exposing the two crying, snotty, shaking kids and she says, "Listen you little bastards, I was going to use those pears to make preserves for the jelly competition at the fair in September, which I have won four years in a row, but now I don't have enough pears to make it, so thank you for ruining one of the few pleasures left to an old woman like myself. I hope you both feel really bad about what you've done," and then she left.
AND if you go into that farm house on Tucker Road, it's said you can still hear the sounds of her quietly weeping into the empty mason jars that had been intended to hold all her prize-winning pear preserves.
True Story
#2
My cousin goes to Loyalla and she knows this couple that went to Mexico for spring break and the whole time they were there, the girl was just bitching and moaning about how much she wanted to get one of those nasty hairless Mexican dogs, and she just kept at it for days until her boyfriend was ready to kill himself. So he finally was like, OK, Get a damn dog, which she did. She bought him from one of those "chicle chicle" kids for about $5 American and she named it Chalupa. Then they went back to Chicago and they had a dinner party and one of the guests there was a veterinarian, so when the woman brought the dog out to meet everyone, he was like, "OH MY GOD!!! I hate to tell you guys this, but this dog is severely malnourished. Poor thing. You should put him on a special diet. I'll write down what you need to buy at the store."
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
More Jerks of the Sea: Haiku
Jaws, Jabberjaw, Jaws
II, the Millionaire and his
wife, SeaQuest, this guy:
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Jerks of the Sea: Haiku
Coelacanths are jerks:"Check out my rostral organ!"
"Who's extinct now, bitch?"
Starfish are jerks, too.
Radial symmetry. You
want a fucking prize?
Monday, March 23, 2009
Songs About Paul
Paul Out of Love
Paul I Need is a Miracle
Paul You Need is Love
WonderPaul
Sexy Motherfucker
Paul I Need is a Miracle
Paul You Need is Love
WonderPaul
Sexy Motherfucker
Monday, March 16, 2009
I Love Sad Songs, the 70s Edition
Space Oddity - David Bowie*
Suicide by cold, vacuous, infinity. Makes your little wrist slitting attempt seem lame indeed.
That's the Way I've Always Heard It Should Be - Carly Simon
Listen as Carly guts the concept of a lasting, happy marriage. I don't know if the songstress thought these lyrics were ultimately optimistic, but the feeble final refrain ("We'll marry") is buried beneath the overwhelming evidence that wedding vows lead to misery. So he thinks it's time to move in together? Run!
The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald - Gordon Lightfoot
A dirge that relayed the true story of a freighter that had sunk in Lake Superior the year before, taking all hands with it. This song hit #2 on the Billboard chart. For realzies.
At Seventeen - Janis Ian
My mother introduced me to this song and for that I shall forever be ungrateful. In my ugliest, loneliest moments, it never fails to run through my brain like some wretched little anthem. "I learned the truth at seventeen that love was meant for beauty queens…" Pathetic? Oh yes.
Tapestry - Carol King
There is no justice in a world where a man can cruelly and pointlessly be turned into a toad.
Taxi - Harry Chapin
You see, she was gonna be an actress, and he was gonna learn how to fly and, well, things didn’t work out for them at all, because now she is shamming domestic bliss and he’s a strung out cabbie. I can’t even listen to this song.**
Perfect Day - Lou Reed
The crown jewel of sad 70s songs. The melancholy. The self-loathing. The pathetic-ness. And then, that surprising backswing of spite: You’re going to reap just what you sow, you’re going to reeeeaaap just whaaaaaat you sow... It’s a perfect song.
*OK, Space Oddity was original released in 1969, but it was re-released on an album of the same name in 1972, so I'm counting it.
** Some listeners may be struck by the thematic similarities between Chapin's Taxi and Dan Fogelberg's Same Old Lang Syne, another song of post-romance synchronicity. If so, then kudos to you.
Suicide by cold, vacuous, infinity. Makes your little wrist slitting attempt seem lame indeed.
That's the Way I've Always Heard It Should Be - Carly Simon
Listen as Carly guts the concept of a lasting, happy marriage. I don't know if the songstress thought these lyrics were ultimately optimistic, but the feeble final refrain ("We'll marry") is buried beneath the overwhelming evidence that wedding vows lead to misery. So he thinks it's time to move in together? Run!
The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald - Gordon Lightfoot
A dirge that relayed the true story of a freighter that had sunk in Lake Superior the year before, taking all hands with it. This song hit #2 on the Billboard chart. For realzies.
At Seventeen - Janis Ian
My mother introduced me to this song and for that I shall forever be ungrateful. In my ugliest, loneliest moments, it never fails to run through my brain like some wretched little anthem. "I learned the truth at seventeen that love was meant for beauty queens…" Pathetic? Oh yes.
Tapestry - Carol King
There is no justice in a world where a man can cruelly and pointlessly be turned into a toad.
Taxi - Harry Chapin
You see, she was gonna be an actress, and he was gonna learn how to fly and, well, things didn’t work out for them at all, because now she is shamming domestic bliss and he’s a strung out cabbie. I can’t even listen to this song.**
Perfect Day - Lou Reed
The crown jewel of sad 70s songs. The melancholy. The self-loathing. The pathetic-ness. And then, that surprising backswing of spite: You’re going to reap just what you sow, you’re going to reeeeaaap just whaaaaaat you sow... It’s a perfect song.
*OK, Space Oddity was original released in 1969, but it was re-released on an album of the same name in 1972, so I'm counting it.
** Some listeners may be struck by the thematic similarities between Chapin's Taxi and Dan Fogelberg's Same Old Lang Syne, another song of post-romance synchronicity. If so, then kudos to you.
Friday, March 13, 2009
D’s Annotated List of Hobbies
1. Winning spelling bees
a) in English
b) in Latin
2. Winning games of Scrabble
3. Winning Stolichnaya sponsorships
4. Honing my winning personality1
5. Reviving dead languages
a) Please see my solo recording of “Roxanne” in Aramaic
b) Feel free to drop by my next Proto-Indo-European Enthusiast’s Tea Party
6. Polishing my “me” diamond
7. Polishing my “me” diamond’s platinum setting
8. Polishing my Tri-State Area Doggerel Champion, 2008 trophy
9. Pointing out egregious examples of imperialism and sexism in treasured though tragically flawed second-wave feminist young adult fantasy novels
10. Creating internet memes
11. Profiting from my created internet memes
a) See my “Saying a Day from SartreCat” Calendar (Running Press, 2009)
b) See my “All Your Moods Are Belong to Us” Mood Rings, available at any fine retailer
12. Assiduously avoiding nuts
a) Human
b) Almond
13. Sleeping with Macarthur Genius Grant Winners
14. Avoiding Macarthur Genius Grant Winners subsequent phone calls2
15. Debunking
16. Spelunking
17. Witch-dunking
18. Out-punking
a) in English
b) in Latin
2. Winning games of Scrabble
3. Winning Stolichnaya sponsorships
4. Honing my winning personality1
5. Reviving dead languages
a) Please see my solo recording of “Roxanne” in Aramaic
b) Feel free to drop by my next Proto-Indo-European Enthusiast’s Tea Party
6. Polishing my “me” diamond
7. Polishing my “me” diamond’s platinum setting
8. Polishing my Tri-State Area Doggerel Champion, 2008 trophy
9. Pointing out egregious examples of imperialism and sexism in treasured though tragically flawed second-wave feminist young adult fantasy novels
10. Creating internet memes
11. Profiting from my created internet memes
a) See my “Saying a Day from SartreCat” Calendar (Running Press, 2009)
b) See my “All Your Moods Are Belong to Us” Mood Rings, available at any fine retailer
12. Assiduously avoiding nuts
a) Human
b) Almond
13. Sleeping with Macarthur Genius Grant Winners
14. Avoiding Macarthur Genius Grant Winners subsequent phone calls2
15. Debunking
16. Spelunking
17. Witch-dunking
18. Out-punking
__________________
1 All of the above could have been condensed into one pastime: winning. But for the sake of transparency, I have chosen to enumerate this sampling of the areas of life in which I am supreme.
2 And “sexting.”
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Garfield minus Garfield minus John plus Nietzsche
With apologies to Jim Davis, Dan Walsh and thanks to Niti Bagchi.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
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