A week ago I delighted over the information that Walt Whitman and Oscar Wilde totally touched peens. As per usual, excessive emotion made me question its root, and I realized that what it comes down to is this: I want to be known enough that, in 100 years, my sex life is of historical interest. Not even to widespread scholars, but damned if I don’t wanna make some future English major squee over the though of who I did, or might have, slept with. Here’s to you, Future English Majors.
Following on that in an otherwise unrelated way, today a coworker told me that I make her life sound boring. “I do that to everyone,” I flippantly replied.
Sometimes I realize when I’m…a bit not good, for lack of an original phrase. That one carries enough weight where it should.
Anyway, god knows if I’ve mentioned here my goal in life: to live such that no one can believe my autobiography is not fiction.
My purpose in life is to be useful.
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Pith and Wit 