My newest Twitter hashtag: #MyBrainIsLonely
I want to live in a world in which one’s IQ and literary preferences are listed on intellectual hook-up sites rather than one’s genital size and preferred sex acts. Is that too much to ask? Well, yes, yes it is. And I don’t understand why people shorthand “Fuck You” as “Eff U” rather than “F You” or “FU” – it doesn’t make sense to me. And as I troll the sites and see things like “U have the intelect of a nat. I have good education so eff u.” I cannot help but weep. And too, why is it that I have never seduced anyone with the fact that I have read all of Jane and Paul Bowles. In fact, I have yet to even spend time with someone who knows who Jane and Paul Bowles are. Which is why – today – I need Waugh’s “BRIDESHEAD” and I CANNNNNNNOT FIND IT!
See, the thing is, I own at least – AT LEAST – seven copies of Evelyn Waugh’s “BRIDESHEAD REVISITED” and I cannot find ANY OF THEM in this house where I am now living. It defies imagination and logic that I would have put ALL of them in storage. DAMMIT.
How could I be so stupid? I must be punished.
Tied to a stake and shot through the head sort of thing …
Or maybe I should read the Bowles again – some of those books ARE here, unpacked. Will I ever actually have a space in which I can unpack ALL my books and my French two-thousand pound cookware again?
Who am I fooling? No one is ever going to care I love the Bowles . . . and – too – want to marry me – nor will I find anyone I want to marry who has read the Bowles – I mean – the man I currently want to marry literally almost cannot read – which is – I suppose – the logical and predictable apotheosis of my loving trajectory – what an asshole. SHOOT ME.
Or … something with a chainsaw?
Whatever. But something fast . . . rather than the drip drip dripping of a slow despairing death by attrition . . . one empathy cell at a time . . . stripped away by yet another disappointment . . . NO. CHER – TAKE ME AWAY –