Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Because I Can and Will

In lieu of the history project I have to turn in by 12:00 and of the math test the size of Kanye West's penis I have tommorow, what could be better than creating a

List of My Favorite 10 Books Evahr
(not in chronological, logical, likeability or rockability order)

  1. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
  2. Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
  3. Metaphysics of the Tubes by Amélie Nothomb*
  4. Siddhartha by Herman Hesse
  6. A Tale of Love and Darkness by Amos Oz
  7. Blindness by José Saramago
  8. Looking for Alaska by John Green
  9. The Feast of the Goat by Mario Vargas Llosa
  10. Rookie Yearbook by TAVEHY
Who says it just has to be 10? It's MY list

    11. Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett
    12. Of Human Bondage by William Somerset Maugham
    13. Lés Misarablés by Victor Hugo

I REPEAT, they're not in order. That would declare one of them my absolute favourite, which is unfair.

Because nothing has shaped me as Anne of Green Gables.

Scarred me like Blindness.

Thrilled me like Metaphysics of the Tubes.

Blessed me like Siddhartha.

Transported me like A Tale of Love and Darkness.

Enthralled me like Waiting for Godot.




PS. Not to mention the illustrated books that I continue to read today! I mean, had I included them, the list would be twice as long.

*Note: You won't find this book on Amazon, or anywhere, under this name. It's official name is The Character of the Rain which is a poo poo translation. It's real name is Metaphysics of the Tubes.

Saturday, May 3, 2014

Zrsly Dprzd

I was sitting on the cold bathroom linoleum, jacking off to an Etgar Keret story about how he lost his virginity. (Trying not to make any noise, of course.) It's not that his story had turned me on, but rather, that I enjoy paying attention to other things while I masturbate; I study, watch videos, read or scroll through feeds with one hand and play with my vagina with the other.

Etgar Keret is one of my favourite authors, because he has an unexpected way of writing; yet it wasn't his sex anecdote that turned me on.

I was horny because I had gained weight in the last few months, because the added weight had made my face look like a Jackson Pollock painting, because I feel unloved and García Márquez has me thinking that love is stupid because you'll feel lonely anyhow, and because I had been reading health articles in which masturbation figured.

I was also horny because I've been watching a lot of Gossip Girl lately, and that's got me living vicariously through the glamorous life that I don't have. The beautiful lives of the rich and famous being spied upon the ugly lives of the rest.

And when I see the wannabe-writer character in Gossip Girl, Dan, I realize that writing about my own life is stupid, and will take me nowhere. Even though he is probably the character I could relate to the most, I don't, because he's a stupid ass and pretentious intellectual bitch.

So I think Gosh, when I write, I should write about spectacular things.

Not about how I was masturbating on the bathroom linoleum because I felt despicable about myself.

Not about how I got drunk and high on Wednesday night and made a complete fool of myself and want to eliminate my presence on this Earth and never see anybody again.

I shouldn't write about my bulimia, my harmful relationship with chocolate, my addiction to homework as a means of escaping reality, my death-hurrying procrastination.

I shouldn't write about my life, because my life is no fun.

I should, instead, write about glamorous and adventurous lives, ones unlike mine. About people that have fun and unpredictable friends, unlike mine. About pretty places and fresh air and the sun and the moon and all the clouds in between.

The world is beautiful somewhere, just not here.

(I wouldn't write about me anyhow, because I'm sick of people only caring about themselves, a characteristic to which I'm the guiltiest.)

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