Muriel Spark is dead, the Economist tells me. The Economist has the best obituaries. Fame and notoriety are only attractive for the poontang they’d help me score and I haven’t thought it worthwhile to think out a disposal plan for my corpse – I suppose I could get four or five more cats and just have them eat me – but I have to admit I’m partial to the idea of getting an obituary in the Economist. Anyways, she died, and I’m sad about it. She was pretty old when she died, but she was writing her tight little beauties of books and stories until the end. Imagine being all clever and shit like that. I have a massive soft spot for Muriel Spark because I came to her books recently and found that her style was just what I always wanted to have when writing fiction, which is so inspiring – to have an ideal in mind and then actually know it can be done.
Originality? Please. I’m a child of the 90’s. I was the demographic that got inundated with crazy airplay about Len not wanting me to steal his sunshine and that wished the singer would shut the fuck up so I could hear that cute little duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh in the voiceless bridge that I was too young to realize they’d ripped whole from the Andrea True Connection.
In other news, I’m looking hard into returningeth to thee olde countrees now. It isn’t just Figaro – the last two weeks were a vacation and we still don’t know our asses from our elbows. It’s also a lust for a bike-friendly lifestyle and unpasteurized cheese. And all the sweethearts there who I miss. Miss you, miss you, miss you. Nonetheless, if I go anytime soon, I’ll need to know it’s for MONEY. Big, fat money. I don’t mind doing more office work for awhile if there’s fat, stinking, oily scads of cash involved. It would be absolutely fascinating to have filthy, obscene wads of money and see what I blew it on.
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