{pulpy} kaleidoscopic dreams, its germination in the pang of seeing an old friend and too much alcohol. relentless runny nose, interspersed with eye-watering sneezes: my internal monologue (total misnomer, implying that i control the image i present to myself!) runs punishingly cyclical, an unlucky byproduct of 1) alcohol (++), 2) time (++) and 3) sleep (--). also, perhaps, 4) cowardice (++). how is it that i spend a lion's share of my time waiting, waiting, waiting? i need a diverting book. infinite jest is clever, yup, yup, but so depressing. will any of the characters meet a happy ending? maybe m. incandenza? a silly guess: he is literally insular, attending a tennis academy when he himself is deformed, acts as a mostly silent conversationalist, declines to learn to read because he would rather just listen. what would it mean to be happy when you have no meaningful connections to those you live among? i want to read a silly, pulpy, optimistic book. everything real just feels too heavy right now.

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