"Tell me what wisdom or lesson I can possibly begin to share with the world about an afternoon's journey that began with the kindness of an old woman and ended with a front-row seat to a mass murder?"





I don't know, Mr. Futurist[slash]fictional character, conflicted protagonist in a depressingly cynical novel about the world's obsession with the future. Although it piques a fascinating impudence in my habitually-static mind, that perhaps from now on I will refuse to root for the protagonist. No matter how noble the said protagonist's intentions may be, and no matter how despicably immoral of designs that Mr. Antagonist wishes to impose upon a person, family, animal, or world, I believe I'll just fuck it for a day[slash]many days. Side with the bad, that dark side. Maybe because I am that evil. Ambivalent. Or you deem me ignorant. A "pussy" perhaps. Tunnel-visioned, immature, inexperienced. Disrespectfully unheeding of literary prose that such and such author worked so hard on. But in the end, it'll be refreshing to not care about the point. Misread a novel. Refuse to accept an argument that Mr. Author has supported with so many fine detailed examples.

Because after countless novels that officially began to suck starting high school English honors, where five unoriginal, overworked, short-answer questions followed every story, I bore. Such and such authors, editors, compilers with their little nice degrees, forcing me to acknowledge that the Greeks sure diddly-do know well how to write tragedies and comedies so that I can earn my full five points on them questions. As if to nudge you to think carefully about what they carefully think matters. The literary vicissitudes of human emotions.

Maybe I'll elaborate later. But more likely, when I read this again I'll mentally badger myself for what an asshole of an entry this is.