If I get an A on this paper I just finished, I will have to conclude that paper writing, and probably life in general, have absolutely nothing to do with what one has to say, and absolutely everything to do with how fancifully one can say it. This will be both a disappointment, since I'd like to think we, the human species, are not utterly full of shit, and also, a small comfort, since I often have nothing valuable to say. And since I would like an A, even though I probably don't deserve one. If only the material weren't so boring. I have been working on it since 6 this morning, and it was only a 6 page paper. I did take a few hours off to go to class. But still, I put about 12 hours into it. Am I average or below average?
A bit of wisdom from Babylon: "Last year I ate garlic; this year I have heartburn."
A bit of wisdom from my father: "Almost only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and nuclear warfare."
Also: "Profanity is the sign of an inarticulate mother fucker."
My one and only original proverb: "The key to cleanliness is more trash recepticles."
I've always said that. It's not Shakespeare, and it's not Solomon, but what it lacks in panache, it makes up for in conciseness and slight alliteration. If you ask me.
Madame Bovary was Summer Roberts' favorite book on The O.C. She read it five times. She volunteered to visit dying people at a hospital, and one of them loved that book and begged her to read it to him. So she did. Seth was impressed. And now, I am reading Madame Bovary for my literature class. I am following in Summer's footsteps. I miss The O.C. I write to pass the time.
I had sort of a jarring weekend. Things are not well with my family. I kept trying all my Zen mind tricks, everything is as it should be, and drunken slurred words are just sounds not daggers, and we are all one, the blanket, but they all let me down when I needed them. And laughter is my one consolation.
California,
California,
Here we come.
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