This is the new year

It’s Christmas day and I’m waiting on a text from my girlfriend whilst sitting in my parent’s house. Unlike many college attendees, I’m not visiting my parents for Christmas. I live here, much to their chagrin. It’s understandable, who wants a burnout son enjoying coital activities in the same room where they dressed him as a child? The implications are a bit perverse. Considering that we’ve braced ourselves, or, I should say, I braced her against everything in this room . . . a room which I rarely clean . . . let’s just say there are some sanitary issues about stepping foot into my corner domain. I rent for about $50 a month. I pay my rent direct deposit, from my wallet to my parent’s hands. The catch for my cheap room and board? Driving kids, assisting in cleaning the house and the realization that my “room” is simply our computer/study room with my low-rise bed thrown in.

These are the typical signals for a classic case of burnoutism. Granted, I know I screwed up. I didn’t treat college as vocational training. Why would I? I am unflinchingly solipsistic with a fondness for instant gratification. Just present me the GD fish, I don’t want to learn how to lure and bait. I sexed, scammed and snorted my way through college. College didn’t mean academics for me; I didn’t fall in love with Rousseau or Hass. I couldn’t even associate with Ginsberg, mostly because my college demands homophobia on a grand scale. I did like Whitman though, but more because Clinton gave Whitman’s piece de resistance to his well-stained intern and Whitman made various natural allusions to male genitalia. Seeing as my dude friends were always coming up with inventive ways to refer to the ol’ basket of duplicate eggs and pondsnipe, I figured Whitman’s references were outdated, but still maintained retro hilarity. What did College teach me? I’m not sure. One thing, I know that my belief that feminism is a trite cause is sure to incite uproar when mentioned in any English class.

Don’t mistake these above criticisms, I like my current lifestyle. Little responsibility, my parents are too focused on getting the rest of the family through college to worry about my obvious floundering and I get to revel in my non-accomplishment. I’ve even rationalized my return to my parents and consider my current non-corporate jobs as a refusal to give into the capitalist dogma. To be clear, I’m no Marxist. His theories are totally inapplicable and Marx and Engels are denser than Forche. For those who find that last statement specious, The Communist Manifesto is child’s play, you inappropriately initiated Marxists. Try Das Kapital I, II and III, it’s a solid trilogy. And then read Adam Smith’s The Wealth of Nations in order to translate what can only be described as Max’s form of The Wasteland. Anyway, people have been chiding me for not continuing my writing because somehow they find my depressed tidbits, self-criticisms and sexual anecdotes amusing. Glad that I’m a source of entertainment, your reincarnated Comedian.

Everything is funny, even Rorschach got the joke in the end.



-Mozart