The Return of the Amazing Dr. Funkenstein and his Psychedelic Paraphernalia

Okay, so I started off with a short story I've been working on--real surreal stuff--but then I decided to make a sculpture, but it kept looking at me funny, then an octopus attached itself to my face and I fell out the window while struggling to get it off my face, and I landed in the back of a hay truck, where a pig stamped my ticket (twice, by accident) and pushed me out of the truck when we took a turn by a cliff--I flew fifty miles up in the air, banged up against the Fox News satellite and plummeted, and instead of dying, landed on top of a cop car--and it died, and I rolled over, shook hands with the octopus (commending it for a fight well fought) and we both went our separate ways--him back to Russia and me back to my surrealist short story.

(I meant that in earnest... Sorry if it sounded sarcastic.) Really what I'm working on now is my preface. I'm treating it as a process paper with a works cited page.

Tougaw had a bad idea. He sent me after books about surrealism. Naughty, naughty Tougaw. (Go to your room.) I went to the library and I felt like a fried egg with a paper cocktail umbrella sticking into it at a forty-three degree angle in a walrus theme park. Now I have twenty books at home that make me giggle whenever I look at them. Thanks a lot, Felix.

Never Let Me Go is highly impressive with its levels of intentionality involved in the method of narration--("Kathy is telling us about when she was thirteen and remembered a time when she was ten when Tommy told her something that reminded of herself at eight--all the while being aware of the outcome and the mindsets of other people, through her experiences as a carer")--but this is the most boring Sci-fi novel ever. (Yes, I'm aware this is not a work of science fiction, but stick with me here, I'm trying to make a point.)

Science fiction, in theory, is orchestrated around our present concerns using thrills to achieve a catharsis from its audience. Never Let Me Go is concerned with current class-relation issues but fails to make me feel anything. Kazuo Ishiguru builds these beautifully constructed works of art--cathedrals to architecture, but they lack the power of religion. (Whatever you happen to worship. I won't judge you. My religion involves watching episodes of M*A*S*H repeatedly.) That's where Ishiguro fails, in my mind. He makes these very nice, intellectual books, but when I put them down I just think they're nice.

(I think Tougaw hates when I refer to Ishiguro as Sulu, which is what makes it so much fun.)

I feel the party went decently well. (Although I never did get that lap dance from Dominik.) I haven't had Swedish Fish in forever! (Weeeeeeee!)

Oh, and I feel the draft of my short story was well received. My group members pointed out some flaws that can be fixed by the time it's due. All is groovy.

Now give me back my tricycle!

The Futurists across the street have stopped working their jackhammers into the asphalt.
There is only night outside.
The plastic tarp on the elephant skeleton across the street is sticking out at a ninety-degree-angle
with the wing blowing
a constant sheet of uncooked short-grain rice at my bedroom window.
Denis Johnson plays guitar on the corner for the paparazzi.
I sit at the Ming dynasty palace I have constructed out of the loose papers on my desk.
My cat leaps up to the looseleaf north tower
and looks outside at nothing.

Well, kiddies, you've all been great (some more than others) and whereas I can't say that I loved all of you, I loved as many of you as I could (wink wink).

I wish I coulda done better for y'all. Written more things for yous to read. Maybe I coulda joined a gym and worked on my abs more. But I am as I am--crazy.

Goodbye.

PS- Remember me as Vincent Van Gogh.