The Unswung Bat

Monday, September 10, 2007
I am not now now have a ever been a member of a sexy party

Just in time, a pack of Jack Kerouac books (nice alliteration) came by buzzer and obnoxious deliveryman (what did I say?). How they won me over: the first one's title is "Why Kerouac Matters."
He ain't much of a writer, but I'll give him a shot on the strength of that title and how fucking weak I'm personally feeling at the moment.
I'm an anemic kitten. I worked an extra day and a half and set rigid deadlines for the news section, and got all the copy in—written, edited, ready to go—by 8 p.m., only to see it all fell apart in a production bottleneck and clusterbomb explosion of fuckups, and no one knows why.
I have my theories, but like my crappier books and more pointless writing, they don't satisfy.
I slept in the office. I may die of mesothelioma. Or whatever you get from instant coffee.

[Away for a moment—where could I have been? Was it a tragicomic interlude? Did I prepare a bisque? The answer to these and more: yes. Microwave bisque is gross. Embracing my American heritage, I'm throwing money at the's 12:18, class is at 2 and in the meantime I can have anything I want near U of T for breakfast.]

How the hell am I supposed to finish a piece for this newfangled writers' group this Friday? Would Miz Laura notice if I brought one of her own, earlier projects to the table under my name...? Maybe I'll just write down the proceedings of the meeting, imagined in advance.

[A second interlude, y'ain't invited to the details, but it were loud, here.]

Is this anything? G'night, anyone, I do not know what I'm tired of, but I am so God damned tired of it.

A deep breath and regrouping: sitting in on a meditation seminar this term, gonna see what that's all about. Enlightenment pending, compiling inner peace...

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