When you go will you send back a letter from America?
Well, the future, immediate and not so immediate, is guaranteed to hold some interesting prospects for yours truly. In keeping with tradition they will probably be mostly unpleasant, or at least mildly disconcerting, but there are some bright lights along the way.
Let's start with the near future, the next three months or so. Here's what's coming down the ol' sluicepipe of pain:
1. The collaborative writing of a novel with four or five other people, lamebrains all. (I'm guessing. We'll find out tomorrow.)
2. The dissection of a pig foetus. I don't think this needs much commentary. A pig foetus. A dead pig baby. And a sharp knife.
3. A trip to the local maximum security penetentiary, which I voted against replacing with a state-o-the-art facility, a fact that I'll try not to reveal within earshot of Big Ray and Two-Fingers Joe and whoever else populates such places.
4. Trying to figure out what I'm doing next summer, which leads me directly to...
Next Summer
Possibility 1. Travelling to some exotic locale, such as Arizona or Wyoming, to spend the summer working in a hotel like last summer.
Possibility 2. Find a job in the Olywa and stay and go to school so I can get out sooner.
Possibility 3. Rum runner to Cuba.
Possibility 4. Internship with some kind of company that needs interns. I assume that would entail attending board meetings, throwing scalding pots of coffee at clients who displease me, and buying and selling overseas labor with a callous efficiency that would put the slavetrade of the 1600s to shame.
The Following Academic Year
Possibility 1. Woods Hole Semester at Sea. There are a million things that could foil this plan, not the least of which is my own incompetence in the scientific arena, but were the stars to align this would no doubt prove the pinnacle of my life, after which all would be a slow, sepia-tainted descent into hell. The lamest trip I could possibly go on would be sailing from Woods Hole, Massachussetts (ho hum) to ST. CROIX IN THE US VIRGIN ISLANDS. Other possible trips, it's the luck of the draw, include St. Croix to Key West, Hawaii to San Francisco, TAHITI TO HAWAII (omfg), et cetera et cetera. Merely thinking about this gives me the fits something t-t-t-turrible. I try to restrain myself so that when I am unable to do it the blow will be less crushing, like say "suicide watch" instead of "suicide obituary."
Possibility 2. Go to school like every motherfucking body else.
After That
Possibility 1. Graduation from college.
Possibility 2. Lost at sea.
Possibility 3. Attend grad school, get MFA in Creative Writing.
Possibility 4. Become published author, enter seedy underbelly of literary world where titanic egos clash and blowjobs, cocaine, and six figure advances are tossed around like after-dinner mints. (I plan on hanging out with Hunter Thompson.)
Possibility 5. Join street gang, kill member of rival gang, come to terms with my mistakes, write bestselling memoir.
Possibility 6. Wash out of grad school and end up dealing cocaine and giving blowjobs to Hunter Thompson.
Thinking about the sea semester has me all riled up now, I shan't be able to sleep. While it would almost certainly leave the remainder of my life an ashen, tasteless parody of the 8 weeks spent at sea, it's worth it. Maybe I won't come back. And...and...maybe I'll never grow up either! (I saw this movie "Finding Neverland" about the guy who wrote Peter Pan, and though I am loathe to mention it due to its abomination of a title, the flick's actually quite good and so I have The Pan on The Brain.)
In that last sentence I used about three different English dialects.
Alright, so to sum up, Pig Baby, Prison, Boats, Tropical Islands, Hunter Thomspon, Peter Pan, Bananas. (I didn't actually say bananas, but I was thinking it.) Fuck. Life's confusing.
Let's start with the near future, the next three months or so. Here's what's coming down the ol' sluicepipe of pain:
1. The collaborative writing of a novel with four or five other people, lamebrains all. (I'm guessing. We'll find out tomorrow.)
2. The dissection of a pig foetus. I don't think this needs much commentary. A pig foetus. A dead pig baby. And a sharp knife.
3. A trip to the local maximum security penetentiary, which I voted against replacing with a state-o-the-art facility, a fact that I'll try not to reveal within earshot of Big Ray and Two-Fingers Joe and whoever else populates such places.
4. Trying to figure out what I'm doing next summer, which leads me directly to...
Next Summer
Possibility 1. Travelling to some exotic locale, such as Arizona or Wyoming, to spend the summer working in a hotel like last summer.
Possibility 2. Find a job in the Olywa and stay and go to school so I can get out sooner.
Possibility 3. Rum runner to Cuba.
Possibility 4. Internship with some kind of company that needs interns. I assume that would entail attending board meetings, throwing scalding pots of coffee at clients who displease me, and buying and selling overseas labor with a callous efficiency that would put the slavetrade of the 1600s to shame.
The Following Academic Year
Possibility 1. Woods Hole Semester at Sea. There are a million things that could foil this plan, not the least of which is my own incompetence in the scientific arena, but were the stars to align this would no doubt prove the pinnacle of my life, after which all would be a slow, sepia-tainted descent into hell. The lamest trip I could possibly go on would be sailing from Woods Hole, Massachussetts (ho hum) to ST. CROIX IN THE US VIRGIN ISLANDS. Other possible trips, it's the luck of the draw, include St. Croix to Key West, Hawaii to San Francisco, TAHITI TO HAWAII (omfg), et cetera et cetera. Merely thinking about this gives me the fits something t-t-t-turrible. I try to restrain myself so that when I am unable to do it the blow will be less crushing, like say "suicide watch" instead of "suicide obituary."
Possibility 2. Go to school like every motherfucking body else.
After That
Possibility 1. Graduation from college.
Possibility 2. Lost at sea.
Possibility 3. Attend grad school, get MFA in Creative Writing.
Possibility 4. Become published author, enter seedy underbelly of literary world where titanic egos clash and blowjobs, cocaine, and six figure advances are tossed around like after-dinner mints. (I plan on hanging out with Hunter Thompson.)
Possibility 5. Join street gang, kill member of rival gang, come to terms with my mistakes, write bestselling memoir.
Possibility 6. Wash out of grad school and end up dealing cocaine and giving blowjobs to Hunter Thompson.
Thinking about the sea semester has me all riled up now, I shan't be able to sleep. While it would almost certainly leave the remainder of my life an ashen, tasteless parody of the 8 weeks spent at sea, it's worth it. Maybe I won't come back. And...and...maybe I'll never grow up either! (I saw this movie "Finding Neverland" about the guy who wrote Peter Pan, and though I am loathe to mention it due to its abomination of a title, the flick's actually quite good and so I have The Pan on The Brain.)
In that last sentence I used about three different English dialects.
Alright, so to sum up, Pig Baby, Prison, Boats, Tropical Islands, Hunter Thomspon, Peter Pan, Bananas. (I didn't actually say bananas, but I was thinking it.) Fuck. Life's confusing.