If I wanted to impress people that I was well-read, I'd lead them to my bookshelves and show them my copies of:
Lolita
Speak, Memory
The Centaur
92 in the Shade
Geronimo Rex
Jesus' Son
The Sun Also Rises
The Great Gatsby
Naked Lunch
The Tibetan Book of The Dead
The Dhammapada
Volumes of poetry by Kenneth Koch, Wallace Stevens, and Wiliam Carlos Williams, along with a bunch of obscure university press poets.
Then they'd probably look at me and say something like, "Aw, shit, boy, can't you show me nothing better than that," and I'd feel really stupid.
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Ever notice how this place just basically, well, sucks.
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