Dear Carmen,
To preface, the cruise diary? Not as bad as I expected. I expected bad. You have, unexpectedly, exceeded expectations. Apparently, you spent the entirety of your vacation cowering in a hottub making up demented sobriquets for everyone actually enjoying themselves on the cruise ship. That is a feat of a considerable amount of daring. Congratulations.
Otherwise, your outlook isn’t good. The future is festooned with shadow and inner anguish. Vehement winter is only getting started. If the eyes are the body’s windshield, yours are coated in three inches of tough ice, and you’ve misplaced your scraper. All around you Quiznos continue to go out of business. You need a haircut. For nearly an hour today, you didn’t receive a single text message, and text depravation is the soul’s most post-modern sorrow.
It’s not all brimstone and fire though!
In the first round of the Gumba League 2010 playoffs, your dreadful FUTURESEX/CUMSOUNDS defeated the heavily favored and superiorly managed Lima’s Sweed. The game pitted an atrocious performance against an abysmal performance. The atrocious won out. You were atrocious and victorious. Congratulations.
You are 33.3(repeating)% done with your graduate school applications. Congratulations are in order at 100.0(repeating)%.
The greatest living American author, George Saunders, published an impossibly incredible short story in The New Yorker this week. He has once again immobilized you with the taser of his genius. You read the story in warring states of awe, bafflement, ecstasy, and quiet-thoughted contemplation. In the unlikely event that you are admitted to Syracuse, this man will be your thesis advisor. Thankfully, you’ll probably be rejected, because how can you say NO to this:
http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2010/12/20/101220fi_fiction_saunders
You can’t, probably, obviously. Can you?
Sincerely,
Reality
baby pictures of famous dictators 