Why is it that in my particular sleep-deprived actuality, my mind is drawn to twisted little details of the writings of William Faulkner? Where did that come from? Yesterday while I was strolling up the hill to my office it occurred to me that my mother is indeed a fish, given that her last name is Herring, ja-ja-ja. The sick part of it is that I'm so punchy (see previous reference to sleep deprivation) that Faulkner's Greek-style hubris lessons in decaying gentry aren't tragic, they're damn funny. I'll grant, Benjy is funny in that sick way that we all inwardly, guiltily laugh at the mentally retarded, but Quentin Compson should probably never be humorous. Then again, we are a special little exclusive club, we failed suicides, in our noirish adeptness at finding a chuckle in it.
Point being, I ought to be drawing connections between various theories of language change, not indulging in the distraction of Southern Gothic.
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They liked Los Simpson, by the way, once we resolved the technical difficulties. Maybe I'll teach them the mambo sometime in the last ten or fifteen minutes of class.
Lola strangely feels like Mississippi might have some redeeming qualities, after all.
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As a veteran of sleep deprivation I will assure you that nothing is funnier than that which happens after 48 hours with no sleep. For example: dropping your original drawings in the sprinklers and then dog poo right after retrieving them from the bomb squad who were called in when you left your drawing tube on the subway on the way to Kinko's.
That was funny.
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