January 22, 2003

Today is the day to realize that the word 'booger' is not necessarily considered 'meta.'

There is no need fo rme to promote the Bookhouse Rock Reading in Austin, TX, which I will be attending, when Neal Pollack can do it so much more eloquently than me on Slate.

32

George Foreman had fallen asleep in his study, which was an improvement from falling asleep in front of the television, or under empty pizza boxes, which had been prone to doing lately. He was enthused by his small improvement upon his writing, and thus had stayed up late trying to go even further, but when he thought about it too hard, all he was good for was staring off into space in an unfocused and strangely comforting way.

He turned off the lights and went outside to fetch the paper. On his doorstep, besides the newspaper, he found an envelope. It seemed like another mysterious message. George was tired of these. They were a nuisance and not at all inspirational nor even vaguely threatening. They just seemed to reaffirm the gnawing annoyances in his life. He tore it open and read:

 

 

 

 

 

 

George sighed. The last thing he needed was a petulant stalker.