The Arts
I Hate This Timeline
It’s like they fleshed out the decadent end of The Time Machine just for today — sinking to the Levy Level
I have a couple of choice rejections from The New Yorker. One said, “No one wants to read a story about eating.”
Now I’m glad I was never in that publication.
Even though I have a master’s degree in literature and am familiar with late 19th century decadent movements, I never envisioned the abyssal Honor Levy level of blissful ignorance and self-obsession in any of my first stories or novel (Imago, 2000).
A lot of what I wrote in the early 2000s has come true.
Yesterday I read about a techbro billionaire who wants to build the “Perfect Town” in California.
Great.
Today I read something that a young individual wrote (I can see and feel the effort behind completion of their challenging, non-rewarding work) about what the decadent sub-lites think is equality for women. It really is the reversal of what women had to do in the 70s and 80s (and many, to this day).
Kiss the ass of a worthless, useless individual who’s so full of themselves their skinsuit’s about to burst, egoworms writhing out.
