Should art allow one to endure or retreat from the stark horrors of reality? Ought I to pursue a life of public service or contemplative indifference? Here are merely two questions I’ve asked myself while conducting experiments in the Irrelevant.
The one who’s napping and the one who’s about to be napping: those are the two people of whom I’m envious.
Do I believe in ghosts? Roughly as much as I believe in myself.
If a local court is ever tasked with finding a jury of my peers, their search should begin (and will likely end) at the bottom of all the town ditches.
Were any of my ancestors to observe all my groundless agonizing and distress, they’d slap me across the face without hesitation. Nor could I blame them.
Each day, I read a distraught editorial in which the author mistakes an aberration for a trend. Almost everything belongs to the former category — including, for example, the human race.
They often mock my appearance. They can keep doing it, it’s okay. I have an advantage over them: only I know how unattractive I am on the inside.