Refining verbal jabs is important to do before their need arises. Otherwise you are left with stabbing the air with the middle air, straining for the proper note of “Fear me!”
My patience with your entitled, privileged horseshit is at *negative* 99,000!
or one of my favorites,
Yes, I realize you are a special snowflake fallen from the butt-hole of angels above, but…
Careless, dismissive gravity is the key in all this.
Through the torrent of noise, anger and circular mediocrity, there appears a kernel of truth that I want to keep with me. Like some piece of exceptionally smooth stone I have found that might be precious, if I wanted it to be.
Damn this book. It defeated me. At page 400. I couldn’t take it anymore. Testing the reader’s patience at every page, Sergio De La Pava’s A Naked Singularity is a 680 page tome in desperate need of an editor.
Here’s what Slate had to say. It’s accurate, especially the graph. Which is cool, along with being accurate. I enjoyed the scatological tidbit about a lawyer who apparently doesn’t know how to use a toilet. I suppose these things happen. Why did Sergio feel the need to clog up an enjoyable, comical rhythm with the inanity of every single thought and action that the lead character might undertake? This is not okay. I am actually angry. 400 pages. Get a fucking editor.
One Last Poem for Richard
by Sandra Cisneros
December 24th and we’re through again.
This time for good I know because I didn’t
throw you out — and anyway we waved.
No shoes. No angry doors.
We folded clothes and went
our separate ways.
You left behind that flannel shirt
of yours I liked but remembered to take
your toothbrush. Where are you tonight?
Richard, it’s Christmas Eve again
and old ghosts come back home.
I’m sitting by the Christmas tree
wondering where did we go wrong.
Okay, we didn’t work, and all
memories to tell you the truth aren’t good.
But sometimes there were good times.
Love was good. I loved your crooked sleep
beside me and never dreamed afraid.
There should be stars for great wars
like ours. There ought to be awards
and plenty of champagne for the survivors.
After all the years of degradations,
the several holidays of failure,
there should be something
to commemorate the pain.
Someday we’ll forget that great Brazil disaster.
Till then, Richard, I wish you well.
I wish you love affairs and plenty of hot water,
and women kinder than I treated you.
I forget the reason, but I loved you once,
Maybe in this season, drunk
and sentimental, I’m willing to admit
a part of me, crazed and kamikaze,
ripe for anarchy, loves still.