Would That be Terrible?

Time Quake. They get real, regurgitated kill retold all over again, with a leading character name to die for. Kilgore Trout; serious, Indiana Jones? Can you get any blander? And what a premise dropped on your head like a good tragedy should, with a plethora of implications that stretch beyond the book’s intense surface. Dull at times, if only you forget the future to come or the past that led the character there. Now I have no right to slob over this like it’s some new discovery I plan to set on its fiery way from this already-forgotten profile. But, man, what an entry into Kurt Vonnegut. That is to say, I’m not much of a reader. Even interesting books with living spiders promised beyond the cover leave me drooling by page two. That aside, I made it through it in record time, refusing the gloss over a single page in a haze of a failing attention span.

See, typically, the mission is to finish it whenever the hell over a year, maybe more, diluting the impact but adding a tick mark on the list of who gives a shit. It seemed so effortless despite the nature of the double timeline and repeated events relived with the second hitting the heartstrings differently like it’s supposed to. For once, I came out the other end of a satirical novel feeling an intrepid sense of a greater meaning behind the tone of the book. It led me, if not out of my crookedly colorful style, out of this notion that those insufferable writers people recommended sparked by something I said or did in polite company were pontificating sludge fest of words riding my last nerve as I realize the dumbest shit gets called best sellers. It was an awakening ego killer that added a legit regret to my shortlist.

Speaking of, Charles Bukowski, Jason Pargin, Robert Pantano now need a detailed revisiting. While the stark state of attention span needs a damn overhaul with the extra long U-Haul rental, it’s nicer to no it’ll be worth more than a pseudo accomplishment I tell no one about.