Masturbatory Prose Style Fails To Reach ClimaxIn LJ, bitterbyrden relates the most amazing dream ever, which includes evil, angry lemurs, Eminem, and a freak snowstorm. I mean, granted, it's disturbing, but who wouldn't want a dream like that? I seethe with envy. Or, not seethe, because I'm really kind of tired right now. I blink sleepily with envy.
NEW YORK—Writer Terrence Hendrie's debut novel I, Me, Eye, with its lengthy sentences and elaborate footnotes, failed to result in a climax, sources reported Monday. "Hendrie really works himself into a frenzy, massaging his love for obscure vocabulary," bookstore owner Robert Silvers said of the 385-page novel, which opens, "Adam, his serpentine ponytail flapping freely in the wintertide dithers, frostbitten grapewine bouche pursed around a smoldering Camel, hands gripping a Dachshund-eared copy of Hesse's Damien, which he recalled borrowing from his Cambridge roommate Geoffrey—young Geoffrey, how Adam chided him for his nostalgie de la boue." "Then, after 385 pages, the wanking-off ends abruptly, leaving the reader unsatisfied." Silvers added that the book's attempts at humor were too dry.
As for my own day, I wish I could share the sucktastic levels to which my job can sink when a project hand-off goes awry, as it does every! freaking! day! lately, but it'd take thousands of words to convey the sheer, mind-blowing stupidity of it all, and they'd be boring words.
I will just let misplaced exclamation marks punctuate my despair.