Eat Your Heart Out, Dostoevsky

Once in a while, I shamelessly flaunt my fancy, pricey and (for the most part) useless college education. Thanks, Mom! Read below show off.

I've been revisiting a few of my favorite books lately because I cannot bear to read any more self-help manuals right now. I’d rather revel in the stories of others than exist in the mangled, quirky masterpiece I call my own. Yesterday, I remembered this beautiful passage from the last pages of The Hours. Prior to reading Cunningham's novel, in which he deftly intertwines the lives of 3 women who share a subtle and profound connection, I’d never been literarily knocked to the floor by a single paragraph. In the excerpt above, he encapsulates the whole book by breaking the characters down to a sound bite. Then he uses the pronoun ‘we’ to connect the experiences of those 3 women to what unites all of us - sleep and death. In 5 sentences, Cunningham connects all humankind by joining us together through the simplicity of our bodies and our physical reality. He suggests that while life is finite and ripe with unavoidable darkness, profound joy and seemingly endless hours of wonder await us. And they're worth it.

Fuckin' Awesome, eh? Man, I could make a lot of cash if I could figure out how to write real sensitive, girly shit like that! I'd buy myself expensive g-strings and find out if the silk and yak's fur ones are as uncomfortable as what I get at Old Navy.

Yeah, yeah dude, the hours, on and on, happy and sad, blah, blah. I gotcha. Don't fucking whack me over the head with your pussy prose, ya faggot writer. I ain't an idiot. So what, this shit won a Wurlitzer Prize? When I was 9, I won a dance contest to Prince's "Let's Go Crazy." So, suk it.