I got into the honors program at Ohio State! I'm so happy! I mean, my essay was truly horrible. We had to write about how we extended friendship and love to our community, which isn't a prompt that lends itself to an interesting or mature essay any way you look at it. So I wrote about how I gave the hand of good nature to Helena in Lit, since the rest of us had a group and she wasn't part of it. Now she is, and it's wonderful and everything is full of camaraderie and love. Unfortunately, she's not good at English, so in our group discussions, she's kind of a hindrance, but I didn't put that in my essay. Doesn't seem very fellowship-ish, you know. Anyway, now that I'm in the honors program, and I have such a good scholarship, it's probable that I'll end up going to Ohio. It's really far away and scary and it's a state school, but how can I pass up such a good offer? It's only sensible. And I'll get to see Allie at the Michigan-Ohio football games (although we've decided that we won't actually go to the game), so at least I won't be completely alone in the world. And I guess it'll be nice to get away and be on my own for real. I'll be an adult. What is even going on.
UGH Dad is sitting on the couch eating nuts and trying to hold a conversation with Mom and Kitty about dance and cheerleading and stuff. I have never heard anyone eat so loudly (although I have); it sounds like there is a train running through the house. Besides this, he doesn't understand anything, nor does he hear anything. I'm pretty sure he's going deaf, and he won't admit it. But even if he could hear, he wouldn't be able to comprehend anything but the simplest of subjects. "Kitty doesn't want to become a professional dancer," Mom says. "What do you mean?" asks Dad. "Can you repeat that?" "I don't have enough time to study," Kitty chimes in. "WHAT?" roars Dad, offended that he hasn't heard her properly. "Is this a special little conclave? Are you trying to exclude me? Say it again!" And so on, ad nauseum. This is why conversations in our house are so difficult. Dad doesn't understand anything, or else he'll just start talking about conspiracies (his new crush is one Bill Deagol, who is truly ridiculous and believes in electric auras, and who shares a name with Smeagol's brother who died because of the Ring), so nothing works out at all. It's rather troublesome.
I've been so exhausted lately. Am I burning out? I sleep a lot, or at least I go to bed at 1:00, which is not too bad for me, but I'm still so tired that I can barely do anything. My head constantly hurts (which is strange, because I usually don't get headaches), and I never eat anything anymore. Eff, I'm going to get fat. What to do? I think I may have a degenerative disorder. I'm almost sure of it. Oh dear. I will die before I am forty.
Wellp, it's been nice, but it's time to do my physics homework (since it is due tomorrow) as well as my ACE review for Lit. Goodbye now!
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Sunday Night
That title was an allusion to the poem Sunday Morning, by the way.
Just so you know.
Kitty bought me a boba! I'm so happy. It's like, you know, a beautiful life, man! She came back from teaching her little student and just handed me a large coffee milk tea. It was wonderful. Unfortunately, it's Sunday night, and I have massive amounts of stuff to do. Actually, what I mean is that I have a concert report to do. And I hate doing those with a fiery passion. But that is the way of the world. You know something else that's truly fantastic? Facebook has changed its layout so that you can add the books you've read to a sidebar and everyone can see and admire how well-read you are. It's lovely. However, I only have eighty-five, cuz that's all I could think of off the top of my head. But then again, I only included the classics, or things that I felt to be of literary merit. So maybe that's ok. Or not, I dunno. I'm really not that cultured, though, or at least as cultured as I'd like to be. I'm still kind of a blob of inanity as far as sophistication goes. Ugh. I wish I were like those people in the olden days who thrived on all the fine arts and could spout off poetry at the slightest provocation and could tell a Parmiagianino from a Bronzino at a glance (and who could actually spell 'Parmiagianino') and who were just really cool badasses overall. It's important to know about the world, you know? I try my best, but I still fear that I'm sadly lacking.
That doesn't stop me from being a momentous snob, though.
I heard from Allie that none of the choir people dislike me. Apparently, they look upon me as a cute little pet and want to get to know me, but they think that I'm rebuffing them and am rude and snooty. Just cuz I'm always texting! That doesn't mean I don't want to talk to them! Well, I mean, I don't, but that's beside the point. If they would actually try to talk to me, they would see that I am a nice, friendly, soul, without a touch of the officiousness they think I've espoused. I only ignored them once! And that was by accident! I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me, and whatnot. Anyway! If they're so dingblasted eager to make my acquaintance, shouldn't they be making an effort? They said they were, but I don't even think so. So I have to surmise that they're misleading Allie so that she won't think they're horrible people (even though they are). But I guess they're trying to dupe everyone, cuz Kitty's would-be beau told me the same thing Allie did, and he was very sincere about it. Da eff, man! This is strange! What if they're actually sincere in their desire to get to know me, and I truly am being standoffish? That would be weeeird. I just... I don't know. WHY AM I SUCH A SOCIALLY AWKWARD PENGUIN UGGGH
Speaking of awkward stuff (ish), my plan for the Writers' Block literary journal has come to fruition past any shadow of a doubt. You see, I wrote a whole bunch of different stuff, with different styles, and submitted it under several different fake names, for publication in the literary journal. Every blessed piece got accepted, and now a good thirty percent of the written work in there is mine. At the officers' meeting (which I only go to under duress, but that's neither here nor there), the teacher began praising one Dagny Taggart's wonderful prolixity and waxing poetic about the literary merit of "his" work. It was interesting that she thought Dagny was a boy, but it was also vastly amusing for me to hear my words being so lauded. I mean, it's me for goodness' sake! I don't even know. But since it seemed to go over so well, I think I'm going to submit some more stuff. Maybe I can get up to forty percent! What do you think?
I love concert reports (even though I really don't) because I can write stuff like this:
For the most part, the audience behaved well during the performance, although there were several problems. For one thing, during our song “I am Not Yours,” one small child took it into his head to start chattering away, and no one saw fit to do anything about it. Thus, some of the quietest moments of the piece were punctuated by the lovely sounds of childish babble. This was not a huge problem, though, since most people did not seem to notice. Also, many of the middle school children did not deem it necessary to behave as well as they perhaps should have ought to, and there was not a little disturbance emanating from their side of the room at regular intervals. One insouciant soul had the temerity to call out to someone on stage, and received a well-deserved lecture as retribution. This was quite satisfactory to everyone in the choir, not to mention several more polite audience members. During Varsity’s performance, too, one brilliant patron of the arts’s phone went off, in flagrant disregard of the many warnings against such an occurrence before the concert. This was nothing short of annoying to everyone else, but fortunately, the incident soon passed. Aside from these minor setbacks, the concert went smoothly, with no unwanted audience participation, and all was well.
And there will be no repercussions. Yay! Ok, but now I really need to finish this report, yes I do. Okay, so I'll be back. Bye!
Just so you know.
Kitty bought me a boba! I'm so happy. It's like, you know, a beautiful life, man! She came back from teaching her little student and just handed me a large coffee milk tea. It was wonderful. Unfortunately, it's Sunday night, and I have massive amounts of stuff to do. Actually, what I mean is that I have a concert report to do. And I hate doing those with a fiery passion. But that is the way of the world. You know something else that's truly fantastic? Facebook has changed its layout so that you can add the books you've read to a sidebar and everyone can see and admire how well-read you are. It's lovely. However, I only have eighty-five, cuz that's all I could think of off the top of my head. But then again, I only included the classics, or things that I felt to be of literary merit. So maybe that's ok. Or not, I dunno. I'm really not that cultured, though, or at least as cultured as I'd like to be. I'm still kind of a blob of inanity as far as sophistication goes. Ugh. I wish I were like those people in the olden days who thrived on all the fine arts and could spout off poetry at the slightest provocation and could tell a Parmiagianino from a Bronzino at a glance (and who could actually spell 'Parmiagianino') and who were just really cool badasses overall. It's important to know about the world, you know? I try my best, but I still fear that I'm sadly lacking.
That doesn't stop me from being a momentous snob, though.
I heard from Allie that none of the choir people dislike me. Apparently, they look upon me as a cute little pet and want to get to know me, but they think that I'm rebuffing them and am rude and snooty. Just cuz I'm always texting! That doesn't mean I don't want to talk to them! Well, I mean, I don't, but that's beside the point. If they would actually try to talk to me, they would see that I am a nice, friendly, soul, without a touch of the officiousness they think I've espoused. I only ignored them once! And that was by accident! I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me, and whatnot. Anyway! If they're so dingblasted eager to make my acquaintance, shouldn't they be making an effort? They said they were, but I don't even think so. So I have to surmise that they're misleading Allie so that she won't think they're horrible people (even though they are). But I guess they're trying to dupe everyone, cuz Kitty's would-be beau told me the same thing Allie did, and he was very sincere about it. Da eff, man! This is strange! What if they're actually sincere in their desire to get to know me, and I truly am being standoffish? That would be weeeird. I just... I don't know. WHY AM I SUCH A SOCIALLY AWKWARD PENGUIN UGGGH
Speaking of awkward stuff (ish), my plan for the Writers' Block literary journal has come to fruition past any shadow of a doubt. You see, I wrote a whole bunch of different stuff, with different styles, and submitted it under several different fake names, for publication in the literary journal. Every blessed piece got accepted, and now a good thirty percent of the written work in there is mine. At the officers' meeting (which I only go to under duress, but that's neither here nor there), the teacher began praising one Dagny Taggart's wonderful prolixity and waxing poetic about the literary merit of "his" work. It was interesting that she thought Dagny was a boy, but it was also vastly amusing for me to hear my words being so lauded. I mean, it's me for goodness' sake! I don't even know. But since it seemed to go over so well, I think I'm going to submit some more stuff. Maybe I can get up to forty percent! What do you think?
I love concert reports (even though I really don't) because I can write stuff like this:
For the most part, the audience behaved well during the performance, although there were several problems. For one thing, during our song “I am Not Yours,” one small child took it into his head to start chattering away, and no one saw fit to do anything about it. Thus, some of the quietest moments of the piece were punctuated by the lovely sounds of childish babble. This was not a huge problem, though, since most people did not seem to notice. Also, many of the middle school children did not deem it necessary to behave as well as they perhaps should have ought to, and there was not a little disturbance emanating from their side of the room at regular intervals. One insouciant soul had the temerity to call out to someone on stage, and received a well-deserved lecture as retribution. This was quite satisfactory to everyone in the choir, not to mention several more polite audience members. During Varsity’s performance, too, one brilliant patron of the arts’s phone went off, in flagrant disregard of the many warnings against such an occurrence before the concert. This was nothing short of annoying to everyone else, but fortunately, the incident soon passed. Aside from these minor setbacks, the concert went smoothly, with no unwanted audience participation, and all was well.
And there will be no repercussions. Yay! Ok, but now I really need to finish this report, yes I do. Okay, so I'll be back. Bye!
Sunday, March 10, 2013
First World Problem Diary
It's spring break! Doesn't that just send a peal of joy and laughter to the heart? It's almost as beautiful as the toneful one-sentence poem, "It's winter break." I could just cry with the delight of the fact right now. The only problem is that it's now the second week of spring break, and I have only seven scant days before I must be back in the halls of learning, but let us ignore that for the present in a carpe diem sort of way and live for the moment as no one else but silly and insipid sophophiles can do.
Hmm, sophophile. I like that word. Made it up just now, I did. Maybe it's a real word and I've horribly misspelled it and I'm showing my ignorance to the world at this point by not knowing it. I hope that's not the case, I mean, I think I demonstrate my lack of knowledge quite enough already without flagrantly parading it about even further.
I have a whole boatload of problems right now. I hope you don't mind me sharing them with you; I find it inconceivable that anyone wouldn't be interested in every facet of my life, felicitous or otherwise. Anyway, so. One day, about a week ago, I looked down at my right hand, and there was a dramatic bloody cut there. It was rather astonishing, as the most dangerous thing I'd done that day was read Rousseau's Social Contract, and as politically questionable as that may be, it's not exactly conducive to corporeal injury. So I was forced to come to the conclusion that I'd gone to another dimension and fought an epic battle there and possibly become the beloved despot and lived a long fruitful life as such before coming back to the present time with only one lovely laceration to remind me of my exploits. I still have the scar, by the way. It's just sitting on my hand like a reminder of my inherent awesomeness. But isn't this interesting? And problematic at the same time? I can't keep going off to other dimensions and having life-changing adventures and then not remembering any of it! It's just not right! Maybe my memory will improve as I get more adjusted to the idiosyncrasies of the time and space continuum. So that's all well and good then, but I have another problem. I was sitting in the kitchen yesterday, peacefully eating toast and reading a novel from the 19th century about some girl who decides to get married to her cousin (which is quite disgusting, really, only I don't think they were actually related), and Dad came up and gave me a kick on the leg (practicing his tae kwon do skills, you see). In the spirit of things, I thought it would be expedient for me to reciprocate, and, with a loud battle cry, I kicked him back. The only problem with this excellent strategy was that I'd used my ankle, and kicked him on his knee, and my part in our tangible repartee only left me with a giant swelling and a difficulty in walking straight. It's very dramatic, really, and I'm proud of it. Sadly, I think the swelling is going down. But for a short time, I was as winsome as the next wounded warrior. Speaking of my legs, though, I have all these bruises, and I'm not sure where they came from. I hope I haven't been sleepwalking or anything. That's so creepy, I always think. What if I've been going out and mugging people and I didn't even know it? I better start locking my door at night to protect the innocent. Now. Are you ready for the worst problem I'm facing? It's quite gross, actually. Maybe I shouldn't write it. But no, I have to, future generations must know of my pain and find comfort in it (the assholes). So. You ready? Well, ok. So, you see, I have a zit. Like, a legit zit. (That sounds like some kind of pseudo punk band, no?) It's literally the size of the head of a pin, and I'm using literally in the most literal sense, because I could never subscribe to the hateful practice of using "literally" figuratively. There's a white top on it and everything. It's so gross! I've not had a zit for about as long as I've been in high school, and now, just when I thought I was in the clear, one shows up! I'm so grossed out that I can't look at myself in the mirror (and, since I am a narcissistic egoist of the highest order, that's saying something). All I can see is Zachary the Zit (whom I've named after the president, since I dislike log cabin charm), and it's driving me insane. I wonder if I'm actually going to go insane? That would be very interesting from a clinical standpoint, and maybe an aspiring Russian novelist could write a story about me and achieve great acclaim. He wouldn't even have to share the immense profits with me, because I would be locked up in an asylum and not care for anything of the material world. So it would be win-win all around (except for me, of course). Damn! This makes me hate the world (more)!
Woah, dude. It used to be 1:59. Now it's 3:06. What happened to the extra hour? Mystery. Maybe the Illuminati took it. No, but really, it's now daylight savings time (or else daylight savings time has been revoked, I'm never sure which), and time will feel all funny for a couple of days until we all get used to it. I'm glad this has happened during break, or I would feel myself getting up an hour earlier than I'm used to, which wouldn't be an enjoyable experience for anyone concerned.
You know, right now Sonia is in England. That's why she couldn't go with Allie and me to San Diego on our archetypal spring break road trip. The lucky bastard! I bet she's having a marvelous time. What if she comes home with an accent? That would be the tightest shiznit ever! Or what if she comes home with a hot English boyfriend? He would be like Sydney Carton. Damn! I want to go to England! I could visit Oxford and see Strawberry Hill and Chiswick House and everything. Man, some people just have all the luck.
These paragraphs are getting shorter and shorter. Soon I'm going to be writing one-word sentences and leaving it at that (though that would be quite meaningful, I'm sure).
Oh! Speaking (ish) of which! I think Pablo Neruda is the William Carlos Williams of Chilean literature. He has odes to everything under the sun, and they're all written in a completely Modernist style. If they weren't in Spanish, I think they'd be almost indistinguishable from Williams's work. Ugh, that just goes to show how ignorant and uncultured I am. Now the world is going to laugh at me and mock my pretentious delusions of sophistication. Ah well. They would probably do that anyway. It's a fun occupation, you know. I do it myself frequently. Speaking of writing, though, I should probably write some more stuff for the school literary journal. The club people who are actually invested in it (read: the teacher) will get on my case if I don't. I'm planning to bomb the journal with a whole bunch of stuff I've written, all with different styles and under fake names, and get it all published, since I'm the person (or at least one of the people) who gets to decide what's going to be in there. It's going to be fabulous. Now I just have to write some stuff. I've already written this wonderfully morbid poem called "Vanitas" which is technically a Shakespearean sonnet, and is full of the most trite symbolism you can possibly imagine. I submitted it via email to the teacher, and she said it was acceptable. Sadly, she thinks my name is Dagny Taggart, because that's the appellation I used for the account, but I suppose I can live with that. I also wrote an epic poem about some dictator who takes power and is all corrupt and terrible and who is modeled after the teacher herself, since her crimes against us officers of the club could fill a book, and submitted that too. Dagny Taggart seems to be quite prolific. Maybe she can get a secondary job in New Atlantis in her spare moments from running the railroad. Now I think I better write some fluffy stuff. Or maybe stuff that's not poetry. Hmm. Since tastes seem to run a bit plebeian, maybe I can resort to parody (which our beloved teacher has touted frequently as comedic gold). Wait, that's not to say that all parody is pedestrian, it's just that it's very hard to write well in that genre. You know? Superior skill is needed (which I don't possess), and subtlety too. It's so easy to be annoying. Well, I guess that's true of all writing. But still. Ok, here's a fabulous piece I've written. I've entitled it "Raspberry Flynn."
"Mornin, y'all," drawled Raspberry, coming out onto the veranda with a mint julep in his hand. "Old dog's still a kickin, huh?" "Sure looks like it, Raz," agreed Jam affably, producing a mint julep of his own. "Never seen nothin so full-up down the river in my life, like." "Say," began Raz after a lengthy pause, during which Jam had been calmly polishing his shotgun, "How'd we get on this here veranda anyway? Last thing I knew, we was on a raft down the ole Mississippi." "Well now," Jam looked around with undisguised admiration, "I reckon you're right! How'd that come to be, ya think?" Raz took a draw on his corncob pipe. "I guess we done crossed that durn Mason Dixon Line at last," he said with a contented sigh. "Ya hankerin after some good ole corn pone?"
Wow, that's beautiful. I could be the next big sensation on the literary scene for sure. I've never beheld such stunning writing as that! And I think "full-up down the river like" should be incorporated into everyone's daily vernacular. It has deep meaning that belies its countrified charm. Wellp, not to be abrupt or nothin, but it's time to hit the hay! It's 3:45 AM, and I have to get up at noon to teach that unapologetic insouciant brat of a student I have. Ugh, I don't like him. You know, his dad stalked us for six months to get a spot in our studio and now that he's here the little blister won't practice? His parents record his entire lessons too. SO annoying. If he weren't one of my fifteen-dollar students, I'd fire him. Be that as it may, I can't change the irritation for the present, so I have to provide for it and get my beauty rest. Maybe Zachary the Zit will fade away during the night and I can be myself again. Anyway, goodnight!
Hmm, sophophile. I like that word. Made it up just now, I did. Maybe it's a real word and I've horribly misspelled it and I'm showing my ignorance to the world at this point by not knowing it. I hope that's not the case, I mean, I think I demonstrate my lack of knowledge quite enough already without flagrantly parading it about even further.
I have a whole boatload of problems right now. I hope you don't mind me sharing them with you; I find it inconceivable that anyone wouldn't be interested in every facet of my life, felicitous or otherwise. Anyway, so. One day, about a week ago, I looked down at my right hand, and there was a dramatic bloody cut there. It was rather astonishing, as the most dangerous thing I'd done that day was read Rousseau's Social Contract, and as politically questionable as that may be, it's not exactly conducive to corporeal injury. So I was forced to come to the conclusion that I'd gone to another dimension and fought an epic battle there and possibly become the beloved despot and lived a long fruitful life as such before coming back to the present time with only one lovely laceration to remind me of my exploits. I still have the scar, by the way. It's just sitting on my hand like a reminder of my inherent awesomeness. But isn't this interesting? And problematic at the same time? I can't keep going off to other dimensions and having life-changing adventures and then not remembering any of it! It's just not right! Maybe my memory will improve as I get more adjusted to the idiosyncrasies of the time and space continuum. So that's all well and good then, but I have another problem. I was sitting in the kitchen yesterday, peacefully eating toast and reading a novel from the 19th century about some girl who decides to get married to her cousin (which is quite disgusting, really, only I don't think they were actually related), and Dad came up and gave me a kick on the leg (practicing his tae kwon do skills, you see). In the spirit of things, I thought it would be expedient for me to reciprocate, and, with a loud battle cry, I kicked him back. The only problem with this excellent strategy was that I'd used my ankle, and kicked him on his knee, and my part in our tangible repartee only left me with a giant swelling and a difficulty in walking straight. It's very dramatic, really, and I'm proud of it. Sadly, I think the swelling is going down. But for a short time, I was as winsome as the next wounded warrior. Speaking of my legs, though, I have all these bruises, and I'm not sure where they came from. I hope I haven't been sleepwalking or anything. That's so creepy, I always think. What if I've been going out and mugging people and I didn't even know it? I better start locking my door at night to protect the innocent. Now. Are you ready for the worst problem I'm facing? It's quite gross, actually. Maybe I shouldn't write it. But no, I have to, future generations must know of my pain and find comfort in it (the assholes). So. You ready? Well, ok. So, you see, I have a zit. Like, a legit zit. (That sounds like some kind of pseudo punk band, no?) It's literally the size of the head of a pin, and I'm using literally in the most literal sense, because I could never subscribe to the hateful practice of using "literally" figuratively. There's a white top on it and everything. It's so gross! I've not had a zit for about as long as I've been in high school, and now, just when I thought I was in the clear, one shows up! I'm so grossed out that I can't look at myself in the mirror (and, since I am a narcissistic egoist of the highest order, that's saying something). All I can see is Zachary the Zit (whom I've named after the president, since I dislike log cabin charm), and it's driving me insane. I wonder if I'm actually going to go insane? That would be very interesting from a clinical standpoint, and maybe an aspiring Russian novelist could write a story about me and achieve great acclaim. He wouldn't even have to share the immense profits with me, because I would be locked up in an asylum and not care for anything of the material world. So it would be win-win all around (except for me, of course). Damn! This makes me hate the world (more)!
Woah, dude. It used to be 1:59. Now it's 3:06. What happened to the extra hour? Mystery. Maybe the Illuminati took it. No, but really, it's now daylight savings time (or else daylight savings time has been revoked, I'm never sure which), and time will feel all funny for a couple of days until we all get used to it. I'm glad this has happened during break, or I would feel myself getting up an hour earlier than I'm used to, which wouldn't be an enjoyable experience for anyone concerned.
You know, right now Sonia is in England. That's why she couldn't go with Allie and me to San Diego on our archetypal spring break road trip. The lucky bastard! I bet she's having a marvelous time. What if she comes home with an accent? That would be the tightest shiznit ever! Or what if she comes home with a hot English boyfriend? He would be like Sydney Carton. Damn! I want to go to England! I could visit Oxford and see Strawberry Hill and Chiswick House and everything. Man, some people just have all the luck.
These paragraphs are getting shorter and shorter. Soon I'm going to be writing one-word sentences and leaving it at that (though that would be quite meaningful, I'm sure).
Oh! Speaking (ish) of which! I think Pablo Neruda is the William Carlos Williams of Chilean literature. He has odes to everything under the sun, and they're all written in a completely Modernist style. If they weren't in Spanish, I think they'd be almost indistinguishable from Williams's work. Ugh, that just goes to show how ignorant and uncultured I am. Now the world is going to laugh at me and mock my pretentious delusions of sophistication. Ah well. They would probably do that anyway. It's a fun occupation, you know. I do it myself frequently. Speaking of writing, though, I should probably write some more stuff for the school literary journal. The club people who are actually invested in it (read: the teacher) will get on my case if I don't. I'm planning to bomb the journal with a whole bunch of stuff I've written, all with different styles and under fake names, and get it all published, since I'm the person (or at least one of the people) who gets to decide what's going to be in there. It's going to be fabulous. Now I just have to write some stuff. I've already written this wonderfully morbid poem called "Vanitas" which is technically a Shakespearean sonnet, and is full of the most trite symbolism you can possibly imagine. I submitted it via email to the teacher, and she said it was acceptable. Sadly, she thinks my name is Dagny Taggart, because that's the appellation I used for the account, but I suppose I can live with that. I also wrote an epic poem about some dictator who takes power and is all corrupt and terrible and who is modeled after the teacher herself, since her crimes against us officers of the club could fill a book, and submitted that too. Dagny Taggart seems to be quite prolific. Maybe she can get a secondary job in New Atlantis in her spare moments from running the railroad. Now I think I better write some fluffy stuff. Or maybe stuff that's not poetry. Hmm. Since tastes seem to run a bit plebeian, maybe I can resort to parody (which our beloved teacher has touted frequently as comedic gold). Wait, that's not to say that all parody is pedestrian, it's just that it's very hard to write well in that genre. You know? Superior skill is needed (which I don't possess), and subtlety too. It's so easy to be annoying. Well, I guess that's true of all writing. But still. Ok, here's a fabulous piece I've written. I've entitled it "Raspberry Flynn."
"Mornin, y'all," drawled Raspberry, coming out onto the veranda with a mint julep in his hand. "Old dog's still a kickin, huh?" "Sure looks like it, Raz," agreed Jam affably, producing a mint julep of his own. "Never seen nothin so full-up down the river in my life, like." "Say," began Raz after a lengthy pause, during which Jam had been calmly polishing his shotgun, "How'd we get on this here veranda anyway? Last thing I knew, we was on a raft down the ole Mississippi." "Well now," Jam looked around with undisguised admiration, "I reckon you're right! How'd that come to be, ya think?" Raz took a draw on his corncob pipe. "I guess we done crossed that durn Mason Dixon Line at last," he said with a contented sigh. "Ya hankerin after some good ole corn pone?"
Wow, that's beautiful. I could be the next big sensation on the literary scene for sure. I've never beheld such stunning writing as that! And I think "full-up down the river like" should be incorporated into everyone's daily vernacular. It has deep meaning that belies its countrified charm. Wellp, not to be abrupt or nothin, but it's time to hit the hay! It's 3:45 AM, and I have to get up at noon to teach that unapologetic insouciant brat of a student I have. Ugh, I don't like him. You know, his dad stalked us for six months to get a spot in our studio and now that he's here the little blister won't practice? His parents record his entire lessons too. SO annoying. If he weren't one of my fifteen-dollar students, I'd fire him. Be that as it may, I can't change the irritation for the present, so I have to provide for it and get my beauty rest. Maybe Zachary the Zit will fade away during the night and I can be myself again. Anyway, goodnight!
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