Perhaps one of the greatest responsibilities appurtenant to having gone to one of the country's pre�minent liberal-arts colleges is to be a priest or priestess attending to the sacred flame of envy; your fellow-students, whose parents were wealthier than yours, whose grades were better, who had more expensive tits, whose breath smelt sweeter, who were probably way more popular than you in high-school, who didn't mark themselves out as hopelessly na�f and socially reprehensible before the end of your first drop/add period, [those fellow-students] have all got splendid jobs and are doing all sorts of interesting and thoughtful things in terribly impressive places. You [sc., me] are not. Now, a clear and reasoned voice in the back of my head says, "AT, you've moved out from your parents house. You have a musical semi-career, which is pretty hot scheidt in the world of classical-music specialist sub-genres. People admit to being your friend in public places, albeit sotto voce. Don't get all Morrissey or I will be obliged to get seriously scorchy on your ass. Suck it up or get a flash job. Noli mi quetscere."
One thing I have learned from the dead French drag king with whom I correspond: don't listen to the voices in your head, sugar, unless you're prepared to Auto the F�.
I could throw in the self-pity towel forever: I could reflect on what I have instead of what I don't have. I might attempt doing more of the things I think are good and important instead of waiting around for others to succeed at them. It is by no means impossible for me to try to be happy with my perfectly-adequate life, with perhaps occasional vacations in the land of "oh, cool! X from my high-school is a successful tree-surgeon... Though it's not quite the same, perhaps I can start a nice little garden for myself to keep me busy during the cold winter months!" and no excessive breast-beating or forehead-smirching. I have, it is true, almost nothing of which to be ashamed, and those of you who know how egregious I am at oral sex, it is your time to remain tastefully tacit. I, in the words of Altered Images, could be happy.
But I shan't do that. That would be denying the carefully-constructed personality of whose cult I am now arch-pope and chief publicist. Reforming myself to a being brighter, purer, and up to 40% better for the environment is base treachery against the unlikable loser as whom I have lovingly limned myself [to you, and to you all]. I shall not deny him, not in this, his hour of need! Nay, I shall give into his urgings, and gripe like I never grope before.
Let us tune in, now, for some updates from AT's alumni magazine:
Vivian Simnelcake '99 [not his real name, please no phone calls] has phinished his second D.Phil. (this one's in Extraordinarily Abstruse Thought!) is in the midst of his residency at a Unitarian Free Clinic in Malawi. He writes, "Sorry there's blood on this email -- I had to perform emergency rhinoplasty this morning on an eight-year-old girl with nothing but a machete and three strips of stale bacon. But my fianc�e Zelda and I thought we should let you all know of our upcoming wedding in the Sainte-Chapelle, with the reception afterwards in the North Korean Embassy. Hope you all can come, except you, AT, you snide little bitch. :^)"
Samantha von Erdbeere (class of '00) writes that her internship with G-d Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, is going really swimmingly. Lately, she's been writing policy decisions for the Big G, but she'll be leaving at the end of the month to become head of CNN. Why don't you pop over and volunteer at her home for legless puppies next time you're in S�o Paulo?
Skip Fossil ('00) writes that his pectoral muscles are just as perky as ever! In the last year, he's been working his way through the entire male population of New York City, including several closeted celebrities. Two aging millionaires have already included him in their wills, and his used underwear fetches astronomical prices on eBay. He really wishes he could return all your phone calls, but an exhausting diet of heroin and steroids has sent him off to St. Tropez to recuperate for a few months. Bon voyage, Skip!
I don't look bitter in this dress, do I?
a