My belated Christmas wish is to wear glasses

so that when people get mad at me, they can call me a "four-eyed fuck" just like Larry David.

This belated holiday-time dispatch comes to all five of you from damp, damp Eugene, Oregon, where I have been disappointed to discover that my parents’ fancypants cable "OnDemand" feature has no episodes of "Big Love" or "Flight of the Conchords" to keep me company, which, I am not lying, I had been looking forward to for like two weeks. So unfortunately this means I have to create my own entertainment, and by entertainment I mean wrenchingly productive dissertation-writing bullshit session, and by productive I mean consisting of several pages of god knows what a day, just like the lady who writes the dissertation-writing book tells me to do. Actually I don’t know why I even listen to the dissertation-writing book lady because she also tells people not to use index cards because they make boring writing, to which I say: You know what a sans-index-cards dissertation would look like by me? This:


1. I like potato chippies.
1.1. What’s with polar fleece anyway?
1.11. If my mom asks me to help her "make a web link" one more time I may snap.
1.12. I know that’s not very nice to say about your mom, but what do you expect?
1.2. Did I mention that I can’t watch "Big Love" and therefore have no purpose in life?
2. Worüber man nicht sprechen kann, darüber muss man schweigen.

Wow, she’s right. That is truly inspired prose, and not ONE INDEX CARD.

Sometimes I try to write papers or whatnot without index cards because it does add a lot of hours to the process, and sometimes it aggravates my carpal tunnel syndrome, and it looks slightly sociopathic, and it wastes paper, but it’s the only way I can remember anything I read. So without index cards, my papers end up as my most recent Enemies List.* If you want to blame anyone, blame my high-school English teacher who suggested this method to me in the first place, or you can blame me for being unable to remember anything I read (unless it is an OK! Magazine article about Britney Spears’ sister getting knocked up–that I have memorized word for word). So I say, you can keep your dissertation-writing book empire and your "writing motto" (No Cigars or Fatties!), and I will keep my beautifully-color-coded stack of 3 by 5 primary-source snippets and we will both live happily ever fucking after!

*HBO. What the fuck is with not having "Big Love" and "Flight of the Conchords" at my beck and call right now? How do you expect me to survive six days at my parents’ house without polygamy and charmingly destitute New Zelanders with guitars?!?
*My brother, until he coughs up his promised Nondenominational Holiday Loot for me. What is the point of being a giant moneymaking moneymaker/professional douche bag/everybody’s favorite because he’s getting MARRIED like that was something original if you’re not going to buy your beloved sister the Mr Show box set? I NEED THE MR SHOW BOX SET, do you hear me? I hate Christmas because of its materialism in addition to its Christianity, and the only thing that can comfort me in this miserable time of year is mountains of new stuff. GIVE ME THE MR SHOW BOX SET RIGHT NOW, BEN, OR I WILL KNOW YOU DON’T LOVE ME.
*Russell Crowe. But what’s new there?
*Anything with singing or dancing in it. Except "Team America: World Police."
*Jean-Francois Lyotard. Good thing he’s already dead.
*Polar fleece.  I dear you to actually wear this non-wind-cutting synthetic bullshit in the polar regions and then you’ll freeze to death just like Megatron and then you’ll get captured by the government and put into the Hoover Dam and microwave ovens will get reverse-engineered from you!
*I really hate Russell Crowe.

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