In an email to a friend, Edmund White, who read from his new memoir here at school the other day, called me “studly.”
My work here is done.
Sweet Jesus, I am thirty-five fucking years old! And this morning, it snowed in New York.
I think Prince wrote a song about that, once.
I am no longer a part of the most highly desired marketplace demographic, which is a bit of a relief. Now I’m at the bottom of the next age range: a youngin’ once more.
There were so many things I was supposed to have done by the age of thirty. The tyranny of youth! There’s consolation in the fact that a chapter of my thesis will soon be published in an anthology (knock on wood). Details to follow. And you bitches better damn well buy it, and pay me back for all of my blood, sweat, and tears over the last four and a half years. I bleed, I tell you, I bleed for you.
In the meantime, I am working my way through book number 33, in order to make a short presentation for class in the morning. Thus, no celebrating for this milestone. But there’s a glimmer of light at the end of this academic tunnel, and soon you should be hearing from me a little more often. Whether that’s a promise or a threat, is your problem.
Thanks for the well-wishes, party people. Though I may act as distant as your cold father, inside I’m all love.