I have a cold, am hungover, woke up at 6 with a throbbing headache based on grinding my teeth all night which is wearing away the bones in my jaw, and my book was rejected and so now I have to write a whole new book from scratch. Yet somehow I am cheering myself up using only the power of coffee and of my institutional JSTOR access. We spent the evening drinking different kinds of alcohol and eating weird huge amounts of sugar late at night; a recipe for actual disaster for pretty much anyone over 30, I would imagine. Even while we were doing it, we were discussing with our dinner companions how fucked up it was going to make us feel upon the morrow. Man’s inhumanity to man indeed. The upshot is, I want to buy an old-timey ice cream maker.
I’m pretty sure I’m not smart enough to successfully do all the things I need to do to get tenure. But somehow in my haze of illness I am feeling like, oh well. I’ll just die someday anyway no matter what I do so why make a big deal out of every dumb little thing. Right now I am feeling detached amusement, more like “gee it will certainly be interesting to see whether or not I get tenure” than “holy shit I am going to fail so epically and everyone will be ashamed of me and I will despise myself.” Everyone assures me that everyone feels this way; I feel secretly that no one in this position has ever actually been as dumb as I am; everyone assures me that everyone also secretly feels this way as well. The proof will be in the pudding, I suppose. The pudding is made of whether or not I will get tenure.
We are also attempting fruitlessly to purchase a home to live in. Even here in this sleepy burg many hours away from anything resembling a cultural center, the market has, if you will, “popped off.” We made a very competitive offer on a very cool house and were not even dignified with a counter-offer; the house sold immediately for over the asking price. What is this, Portland? What a bunch of garbage. I just want a place where my snoopy can roll in the dirt and I won’t be sucked dry by landlords any longer. But wherever you go, if it’s even a halfway decent place to live, there will be the gnarled hand of the third-home-owner or the displaced tech bro or the New York writer who wants a quaint little country retreat and is willing to pay $450,000 for it even though it needs a new floor. “What are you gonna do” / “I can’t get no respect” / “Homer you already dialed”
In spite of all this, the weather is lovely and the sun smiles down upon its children with a gentle benevolent glow. The crickets are chirping. The dog chased a cat down the street and when he came slinking back I thunked him on the nose and he was so apologetic but I do not forgive him. You can love someone but still hate what they did. You can be mad at someone and still notice how fine they look prancing down the street on their walk with your old man as you stare down from your top-floor garrett where you’re downloading JSTOR articles and blowing your nose.
I just don’t want to write an article with 200 footnotes. I just don’t see why that is necessary. Is that necessary? A survey of contemporary journals makes it seem so. These are the wages of life on the internet. Don’t act like you’ve read all these books you’re citing, I know you just saw them on Google books and are trying to look like a smart aleck. Well, it worked.
books about Adorno’s books
a book about Mary Shelley
a book of short stories
a book of letters
a book about postmodernism
a book of sad poems
a book about capitalism
many books about books
a piece of paper with a list of books written on it
a page of the notebook with a list of books written on it
I can hear my old man patting the dog downstairs. It sounds like somebody thumping an ol’ pig on his ribs, which indeed is basically what it is.
I wish I had a sauna