I haven't written here in about, oh, I don't know, a month or so, because my life's been what I like to call "boring." That's not to say I haven't enjoyed it: metabolizing oxygen is one of my favorite things to do, so I can't complain too much, but I haven't really done anything. Well, I have read. Lots. My Children's Literature class, as bad ass as it is, has me buried up to my neck in ham-fisted moralizing and straight forward metaphors. Seriously, I have fourteen books to read this semester for this class alone. That's a lot, by my count.
We've read three so far, the first being "I was a Rat," which is absolutely brilliant! Read it. That's not a suggestion, by the way. No, no, that's a freakin' command, and you will obey it if you value your personal libraries. Then, of course, there was Little Women, which I hated. Honestly. I got thirty pages into it and let it drop and rocked the rest of way with Spark Notes. Why, you ask? Because I'm lazy, and the Victorian time period makes me itch in dirty places. I personally don't believe in a God that actively interferes in the world, but I have to thank Him for sparing me a life in those monsterously affected sixty-one years. Sure, industrial and social reforms are nice, but when weighed against five minutes at a period "party," which is to say five hours of quaffing grog, repressing sexual desire, and lamenting the damage your luggage sustained when your Coolie dropping it as he offered his back as a step latter, it all equals out. And a book about four PERFECT women who never do anything wrong? B-O-R-I-N-G.
Next on the list was Little House on the Prairie, which, although it was redundant, racist, and preachy, turned out to be a lot of fun to read. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. Your thinking: "But, Brandon, that's a book for seven year old girls." Well not anymore, it isn't! I will have you know that I have never felt more secure in my masculinity than when I was reading Little House in a coffee shop, my forehead furrowed over the large print and wide margains, eyes narrowed while studying the wood cut illustrations, while surrounded my attractive young people writing Emails on their slick, white Apple lap tops. I felt I've grown, become a better person, a bigger person, for it, a person who, as far as the regular clientele at the Quaker Village Star Bucks is concerned, possesses the faculties of a seven year old. I'm a winner!
But then again, it's not about winning, is it?
It is? Oh. Well, then.....
Your not my friend anymore.
We've read three so far, the first being "I was a Rat," which is absolutely brilliant! Read it. That's not a suggestion, by the way. No, no, that's a freakin' command, and you will obey it if you value your personal libraries. Then, of course, there was Little Women, which I hated. Honestly. I got thirty pages into it and let it drop and rocked the rest of way with Spark Notes. Why, you ask? Because I'm lazy, and the Victorian time period makes me itch in dirty places. I personally don't believe in a God that actively interferes in the world, but I have to thank Him for sparing me a life in those monsterously affected sixty-one years. Sure, industrial and social reforms are nice, but when weighed against five minutes at a period "party," which is to say five hours of quaffing grog, repressing sexual desire, and lamenting the damage your luggage sustained when your Coolie dropping it as he offered his back as a step latter, it all equals out. And a book about four PERFECT women who never do anything wrong? B-O-R-I-N-G.
Next on the list was Little House on the Prairie, which, although it was redundant, racist, and preachy, turned out to be a lot of fun to read. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. Your thinking: "But, Brandon, that's a book for seven year old girls." Well not anymore, it isn't! I will have you know that I have never felt more secure in my masculinity than when I was reading Little House in a coffee shop, my forehead furrowed over the large print and wide margains, eyes narrowed while studying the wood cut illustrations, while surrounded my attractive young people writing Emails on their slick, white Apple lap tops. I felt I've grown, become a better person, a bigger person, for it, a person who, as far as the regular clientele at the Quaker Village Star Bucks is concerned, possesses the faculties of a seven year old. I'm a winner!
But then again, it's not about winning, is it?
It is? Oh. Well, then.....
Your not my friend anymore.
posted by Der verwirrte Ausländer at 10:07 AM
1 Comments:
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