At 1:21 am on the cusp of my article deadline I decide to take a break from my as-of-yet blank document and browse through Jean Paul Sartre’s Blog on the New Yorker (ghost written by Bill Barol): Despair couldn’t be more hysterical. It makes me wonder what would have become of Sartre–and the entire Existentialist movement–if he had lived after Prozac had been introduced.
Jean-Paul Sartre’s Blog : The New Yorker.
I’ll conveniently avoid any intelligent commentary and get back to not writing.
This is not spam. It’s what your email looks like when you are friends with people who are friends with people who are almost as far-flung-freakish as you are, and when the only romantic interest you receive comes from married men and Humberts.
(No, I didn’t make this up.)
. . .
You do not know or understand me at all. So let me introduce my life and the cockamamie plan i have for the next stint of my life. Continue reading