Still, at Least Every Empath Pleases You

After school today I am just going to write this damned paper. No more pathological overresearching, tonight, I write. Why? So that by this weekend, I can write another. That is unless, of course, someone else want to volunteer to take over either 'the role of Cocain in pertetuating the conflict in Colombia' or 'some damned lousy political philosophy criticism of some jackass who thinks he's too smart.' Don't worry, I didn't actually think that you would.

On the topic of people who think they're far to clever, I feel compelled to metion Dionne Brand. We're doing her lastest contrived piece of Über literati po mo anti-fiction in my english class right now, and I'm ready to strangle her with the vacuum cord. Why? Well, for example, the bit where she flies to Amsterdam (for no particular reason -- having plot is apparently passe) and her luggage is accidentally sent to New York and she has to survive without it for two days, and decides that she then understands how slaves felt. I quote (from A Map to the Door of No Return, p. 208): "... to be without luggage. I wonder if this is how they felt in that other century, no familiar thing which would suggest that you decided to travel, you have a destination, a place where you will land..."

See what I mean? And my personal pretense-tolerance level is sooo low to begin with.