stepho

My girlfriend is so fly and I miss the pants off her and I want her to come here without pants on. Her task is to reform the spoiled Youth of America and teach them to cabin their idiocy so that they are no longer an electoral menace, which she does through the medium of Lolita, and also by forcing white boys to read Adrienne Rich's "Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence" and writing tenderly excoriating comments on their papers when they say the stupid shit they inevitably say. It is an unenviable task because people don't take her seriously even though if the same thing came out of the mouth of a person whose name was "Harold Bloom" and whose face looked like that of a old white sow like Harold Bloom's, they would write it all down, nodding their heads. I miss her sorely and wish that those fucking brats would just educate themselves so sweet dear Bao could come to California and dissertate at an outdoor desk with birch bark falling into her morning coffee. But I know that her big, beautiful brain, housed as it is in her big, beautiful head (not so large as the figurative twin of mine!), must impart itself upon a summer seminar of sixteen, and I will have to wait until the end of her class before I can smell her only slightly-malodorous six-haired armpits and make shadow puppets with her and angrily fight about congestion pricing and allow her to clutch my love handles. Our little hiatus in corpore makes me appreciate how good I've got it. I've learned my lesson! I'm sorry, I'll never leave again!