You might as well live
It's the Melbourne universities exam season and I'm facing a particularly tough year.
Blogging will resume after November 15, assuming my brain isn't melted by then.
I leave you with a poem by the incomparable Dorothy Parker who has provided me with much dark amusement over the years. This is one of her longer poems; most of her pieces are simple, pithy, short and dagger sharp. For a good example of her poetry and possibly reasons I relish it so much scroll down a little further and read the piece that I'm really fond of.
Truly, there is no better entertainment while struggling with morass of contradictions that is the Law.
Symptom Recital
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the simplest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick. I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore:
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men.
I'm due to fall in love again.
Am so going to turn into a muttering old singleton/witch with many black cats around. Anyone need an extra for Macbeth, just call me. I'll even provide my own hooked nose.
Blogging will resume after November 15, assuming my brain isn't melted by then.
I leave you with a poem by the incomparable Dorothy Parker who has provided me with much dark amusement over the years. This is one of her longer poems; most of her pieces are simple, pithy, short and dagger sharp. For a good example of her poetry and possibly reasons I relish it so much scroll down a little further and read the piece that I'm really fond of.
Truly, there is no better entertainment while struggling with morass of contradictions that is the Law.
Symptom Recital
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the simplest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick. I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore:
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men.
I'm due to fall in love again.
Résumé
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
Am so going to turn into a muttering old singleton/witch with many black cats around. Anyone need an extra for Macbeth, just call me. I'll even provide my own hooked nose.
1 Comments:
Good luck, and I hope to see new blog posts soon. :)
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