farenheit 451

if that's the required temp, then fire me up. i'll stoke the oven, open it's greedy burning maw and throw the fucker in.

normally, my small, wordy friend sits in the passenger seat. bursting with life and love and all kinds of deliciousness. begging me to open it up. i tell it to wait, we're almost there.

then, i scoop it up, and set it on the comfy seat, with its own table, while i order coffee. we spend the next hour eagerly sharing secrets. it tells it's story. i reward it with underlined passages and coos, and nods of recognition. 'i get you. i care about this. oh my god, that's hot!'

but this goddamned thing... it mocks me. i stare at its hateful cover and spit at it while i drive. because it is supposed to be all terrific and life changing, but really it's just confusing and oblique and it makes me feel stupid. plus, people keep turning into spiders and the guy's wife's a trashy whore (not the good kind).

if i weren't stubborn in the most ridiculous, retarded way ever, i'd just throw this rancid fish back in the la river. but i can't do it. i can't let it beat me. so i will read on. i will put my head down, and plow through, and curse my bad luck for ever reeling it in to begin with.

stupid nabokov.

i'm glad he's dead.