At Naropa, I took the worst class in the world. It was called "20th Century Literature." While I've got two of the best quotes from random people in that class, one story about getting my ass kicked verbally (and almost physically), one event of betrayal and reading two great new-to-me-authors, some of the literature I read there has scarred me for life.
Violence seemed to be the theme for the works we read and perhaps all books written after 1950. What was awful about the books we read was that the violence was so vivid, so appalling and so pointless. By midterms, I was pretty grouchy and by finals I was ready to commit some senseless violence of my own.
The moral of today's story: my brother does NOT look like a plastic toy figurine. I just forgot to take a picture of him at Thanksgiving and needed a substitute.
An Erinku:
piles of
blankets
keep the
floor warm
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