On Random

I, with the aid of a coworker, had to remove a packaged life boat from my office and take it downstairs to the boss who pulled up in Jaguar and insisted we be careful with both the car and the lifeboat, scolding us for taking two minutes to deliver the ridiculous package which he could’ve gotten himself is he would’ve just paid for parking, but, like they say, the rich don’t stay rich by paying for anything, right?

Then I opened my inbox and saw a rejection from the New Yorker, an email from Northwestern asking for money (already?) and an invitation from some friends to play miniature golf. My tooth hurts and I am tired. The dog slept well last night, which means we slept well. I go today to get capped and gowned. William Faulkner is alive in the writing of Lobo Antunes. Last night I drank stout in an empty bar. The silence was exquisite until the bartender ruined it with a mix tape of nonsense. I keep humming violin parts from “Hunger Strike” by Estradasphere. I am the arbiter of good taste. I cannot see a thing.

I reiterate my prediction about the year 38.