I really get a kick out of the Tumblr follow message: “________ started following you.” I always wish I could respond with a recognition-of-following message, like, “Annotations has started moving in a zigzag” or “Now he’s ducking behind that crate and doubling back oh you are in for it.”
The strangest goodbye from the same co-worker that introduced herself as “Hello Paul, you’ll hate me”.
What a job.
I once worked with a really cool girl who moved away to Europe. On her last night, she just sort of walked off, nonchalantly but fully aware that none of us would ever see her again. Before I could really think about what I was doing (though it had occurred to me: What do you say to a well-liked acquaintance in this situation?), I said: “Hey, don’t make any mistakes.” At first, I thought I was joking. Then I thought I was serious. Then I knew I was joking. Then I whatever. But, I never saw her again. Goodbyes are always pretty weird.
So, The New Yorker blah blah blah, yeah yeah yeah. Anyway, the point is that the most recent issue has a pretty nice article about Vincent van Gogh, Paul Gauguin, and the most famous Secret Santa story of all time, in which van Gogh surprises his favorite French prostitute with his own severed ear. Merry Christmas, whore! (Not his actual words.) Apparently, there’s reason to think that Gauguin actually cut van Gogh’s ear off, but that’s not the point.
The point is that New Yorker copyeditors are going overkill on quotability. Near the end of the essay, the author writes (regarding the fact that we like our geniuses to be jerks, or crazy, or both): “A society of sure things needs a mythology of long shots.”
Now hold up. I’m all for significant-sounding, semi-metaphorical nonsense, but, uh, what? It sounds nice, and even makes sense in context, but what society of sure things are we talking about here? Is it the one where people slice off their ears and give them to prostitutes for Christmas? Okay, no. Is it the one where I still don’t own a real bed after escaping from my old apartment? It is? Oh. Alright then.
Well, it all came true, 2010.
I won’t lie. I went to a big, public dance party. Don’t worry, though. I still transgressed. Like an asshole, I took my 3/4ths-finished drink and threw it backwards, over my head, out into the crowd. Being a winner is just a feeling. Still, there was a chill in the air. And that was more correct.