This, from my undergrad alumni magazine (class of 91): "I'm happy to announce the birth of my son....We are so grateful for all of our visitors, including a [college] friend...who commented, 'So did you think that 20 years later we'd be sitting here talking about our kids?' Amazing."
Amazing?!? Amazing?!? Who the fuck is this bitch kidding? Amazing? What the fuck else was she gonna do? You know what would be amazing? If she were writing this naked in the jungle, writhing amidst a primate orgy. That, I have to say, would be amazing. But this—breeding in a nice safe bourgeois home just like your parents and all your friends, doing the very thing you and everyone around you always--always--assumed you'd do? For that you use the word "amazing"? Jesus fucking christ.
Her note continues: "I currently live in Menlo Park, Calif; and after years at a law firm, went in-house...I also have an unfinished first novel and unfinished first commissioned painting that I suppose is now on an 18-year hiatus."
This, I assume, she thinks is funny. This is what is allowed to pass for a joke—giving up all personal creative pursuits to lawyer and child rear (is that the right word—"rear"? It is peculiarly appropriate). But it's not fucking funny, dearie, it's a fucking nightmare. How did the elimination of pleasure, of creativity, become the stuff of casual humor?
And what's so horrifying is that her joke is a cliche. People don't read her note and think, "Man, this chick is a sick fuck." They smile conspiratorially and go on with their own horrifying lives.
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1 comments:
Henri, are you done writing?
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