In a fit a sodden pique, I stomped my foot to alarm the skunk who was probably fighting with one of those 15 lb. feral cats who visit my yard. I made the skunk who lives behind and underneath my office both scared and mad. S/he has registered her/his displeasure by employing the nuclear option. I am sitting here listening to Drake's "Hold On We're Going Home" as the stench leaks into my office. It has been that kind of week.
Cuthbert, who has never had any liking for me going back to school, has seized upon my despair of ever getting abstract algebra into my brain to berate me for doing this instead of travelling the world (with him, I suppose) ordering 3rd world people around while the dollar is strong. And my oldest, in an attempt not to be burdened with a wheelchair-bound drooling misanthropic and senile mother, lectured me on how I should be making sure our property in New York was profitable and chastising me for going back to school instead of being the next Conrad (not Paris) Hilton, because going back to school at your age is a fool's errand because you know, she said, nobody's going to hire you.
What's a mother to do? I went to the gym. On a Friday night it is pretty damn empty, and I lifted weights while bopping to Drake, who has now displaced La Beyoncé as the pop artist whose music I am obsessively fixated on.
And, too. There will be a time when Xtian or Chinese anthropologists will write about the current obsession with Jackie's pink brain-splattered suit as the English and American scions of the elite wrote about the strange and quaint customs and folkways of the Africans, the South American Indians, the Pacific Islanders, the Japanese, the ancient Egyptians, and so on and so forth. Maybe even hang it in one of their national museums. Yeah, I was alive in 1963, and I remember vividly where I was and what I was doing when Kennedy was assassinated, but Americans please, give it a rest.
Over and out.
Cuthbert, who has never had any liking for me going back to school, has seized upon my despair of ever getting abstract algebra into my brain to berate me for doing this instead of travelling the world (with him, I suppose) ordering 3rd world people around while the dollar is strong. And my oldest, in an attempt not to be burdened with a wheelchair-bound drooling misanthropic and senile mother, lectured me on how I should be making sure our property in New York was profitable and chastising me for going back to school instead of being the next Conrad (not Paris) Hilton, because going back to school at your age is a fool's errand because you know, she said, nobody's going to hire you.
What's a mother to do? I went to the gym. On a Friday night it is pretty damn empty, and I lifted weights while bopping to Drake, who has now displaced La Beyoncé as the pop artist whose music I am obsessively fixated on.
And, too. There will be a time when Xtian or Chinese anthropologists will write about the current obsession with Jackie's pink brain-splattered suit as the English and American scions of the elite wrote about the strange and quaint customs and folkways of the Africans, the South American Indians, the Pacific Islanders, the Japanese, the ancient Egyptians, and so on and so forth. Maybe even hang it in one of their national museums. Yeah, I was alive in 1963, and I remember vividly where I was and what I was doing when Kennedy was assassinated, but Americans please, give it a rest.
Over and out.
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