I'm Not Really Sure This Post Means Anything At All

Part of me thinks there is more to life than this.  And another part of me thinks, no there isn’t, I’m just some damn character in a novel—probably by Virginia Woolf or Franz Kafka or someone like that—who’s always thought there was more to life and is rudely awakened at some depressing point. Or—and this is even worse—who goes on believing there’s more to life until the day she dies but never gets anything more. Then the literary question is all, “Well, should we despair for her, because she never got what she wanted, or should be envy her and rejoice for her because she believed in the chance up until the very end?”

Let me tell ya. Don’t rejoice. Don’t. It’ll piss me off.

It’s like the people who see poetry in tragedy. Seriously. Shut the hell up. Tragedy is never poetic unless you’re the person to whom something tragic is not happening, or this is years down the line and you don’t feel tragic anymore and you feel like saying something profound like, “You know, I think that had to happen to me, in order for me to grow.” Well, I’m sick of growth. If I wanted to see more growth I’d get a damn Chia pet, and I’ve always thought those things were hideously ugly. (By the way, have you seen that there’s an Obama Chia pet now? Seriously? That’s how we honor our presidents?)

Anyway—I’m in one of those moods tonight, so maybe we should all just disregard this pointless blather. But I do want to say that I don’t really feel like being Mrs. Dalloway or, say, that girl from “The Glass Menagerie” whose name I can’t remember right now (see?).

Let’s put on a comedy, Shakespeare.