Sure, we’ll admit if you ask us, we’ll always exist in the shadow of gothics. So what? Screw the book humpers who strive to snatch our throne, the galumping athletes who strive to snatch our snatch, sorositutes smoking Parlament slut butts and their wanna-be fluffer butterfaces, the ratchet of pencil necks craning, all that is ineffably described here, amid squirrely fraternizers chasing the golden riot manes of so many soccer girls.
Hallowed means nothing; this is hollowed, we are young and that is the most powerful currency the world contains.
Because we are the essence of alacritous cool, we are everything our weepy tolerant mothers told us through sculpted noses and plumped out trout pouts, we have Patois at our disposal and when the powers that be get all riled up, we lean across and over with a Whoa Whoa ease, Settle Down, Relax, We’re Just Talking Here calming as if to turn away all that we set before us just semesters ago.
Charlotte Simmons? That musty, upcreek cooze? Forget it. The once elegant walnut shelves of the library are warped with the rings of such passersby like that piece of--, their red plastic Beirut cups left to fester millimeters away from the leather-bound second edition imprint of Leaves of Grass.
It’s about us, not that. Look at us! Our teeth are even! And so white! Our hair is blonde at the ends without any bleaching and we resemble any star living or dead whose surname is Grant…and this moment before the mirror, our fifteen seconds, is not one which we will let slip away in our stupor…slip away in our stupor…slip away in our…
There’s no time for looking backwards at those who’ve already passed through these arches, there is only us and here. And it’s all rat tat tat, rut tut tut here. It’s all popsi-cull insouciance to us. Poor man’s Dr. Dre is Dr. Dis instead and we’ve got it all memorized and can recite it with ease. Inconsequential details you may get wrong, but the Patois, that shiz is dead-on. Dead on. Dead. On.
Speed up the milieu, it’s vanities in reverse they say, but we know. We know. People hate us or they love to hate us. We’re not sure which we enjoy more.
We are that bad. And so what? When you’re under twenty one, you’re nothing less than a god.
Hallowed means nothing; this is hollowed, we are young and that is the most powerful currency the world contains.
Because we are the essence of alacritous cool, we are everything our weepy tolerant mothers told us through sculpted noses and plumped out trout pouts, we have Patois at our disposal and when the powers that be get all riled up, we lean across and over with a Whoa Whoa ease, Settle Down, Relax, We’re Just Talking Here calming as if to turn away all that we set before us just semesters ago.
Charlotte Simmons? That musty, upcreek cooze? Forget it. The once elegant walnut shelves of the library are warped with the rings of such passersby like that piece of--, their red plastic Beirut cups left to fester millimeters away from the leather-bound second edition imprint of Leaves of Grass.
It’s about us, not that. Look at us! Our teeth are even! And so white! Our hair is blonde at the ends without any bleaching and we resemble any star living or dead whose surname is Grant…and this moment before the mirror, our fifteen seconds, is not one which we will let slip away in our stupor…slip away in our stupor…slip away in our…
There’s no time for looking backwards at those who’ve already passed through these arches, there is only us and here. And it’s all rat tat tat, rut tut tut here. It’s all popsi-cull insouciance to us. Poor man’s Dr. Dre is Dr. Dis instead and we’ve got it all memorized and can recite it with ease. Inconsequential details you may get wrong, but the Patois, that shiz is dead-on. Dead on. Dead. On.
Speed up the milieu, it’s vanities in reverse they say, but we know. We know. People hate us or they love to hate us. We’re not sure which we enjoy more.
We are that bad. And so what? When you’re under twenty one, you’re nothing less than a god.
Vacation reading was I Am Charlotte Simmons. Is it possible to be exhilerated by and embarrassed by my upbringing as much as this? It's not all wrong and it's not all right.
The life of few and unproud is often delicious to read, but does it become my style?
3 comments:
I HATED THAT BOOK.
But I kinda like your take on it.
REspect.
Now tell us about France damnit :)
I liked "I am Charlotte Simmons" right until the end. I couldn't figure out why she started dating the basketball player when she hadn't been at all interested in him through the entire book...
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