XXVII.
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tir’d;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind when body’s works expir’d:…
I pulled out my complete works of Shakespeare today. Before I mistakenly give the impression that I’m an elitist, let me do so purposely: I am an elitist. Owning Shakespeare, however, has little to do with it. Similar to my inability to let a “69” go unchuckled at, cheap literary masterpieces feel like a shame to pass up. So when I saw the Bard selling for a pittance in a quaint antique shop, I snagged it. I’ve mentioned before that I tend to avoid fiction and poetry for the same reason Tom Cruise is no longer allowed on Oprah. As a result I’ve had this goddamn thing taking up shelf space for the past decade. But I felt brave today at my big-boy desk, in my big-boy Sponge Bob underwear, so I pulled out the dusty book, flipped back to the sonnets, and started reading aloud.
To be frank, I had almost no idea what the man was saying. I caught a couple “breasts” and “bosoms” and poignant time metaphors in there, but I’m usually on the lookout for those anyway. To be fair, given my nervousness at even taking a look, I didn’t spend too much time attempting to decode the intricacies of what I read. But it was a first step. Another step is going to be dealing with my reactions to powerful literature in a rational way, similar to how I would act in a physically stressful situation; for instance, being hungry. Sure, come a lunch-less 3 o’clock in the animal facility, I might want to eat a handful of mice, but I do the right thing and take a few of the high-fat food pellets from the supply room instead. That’s the kind of maturity others expect of me, and what I should expect of myself.
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tir’d;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind when body’s works expir’d:…
I pulled out my complete works of Shakespeare today. Before I mistakenly give the impression that I’m an elitist, let me do so purposely: I am an elitist. Owning Shakespeare, however, has little to do with it. Similar to my inability to let a “69” go unchuckled at, cheap literary masterpieces feel like a shame to pass up. So when I saw the Bard selling for a pittance in a quaint antique shop, I snagged it. I’ve mentioned before that I tend to avoid fiction and poetry for the same reason Tom Cruise is no longer allowed on Oprah. As a result I’ve had this goddamn thing taking up shelf space for the past decade. But I felt brave today at my big-boy desk, in my big-boy Sponge Bob underwear, so I pulled out the dusty book, flipped back to the sonnets, and started reading aloud.
To be frank, I had almost no idea what the man was saying. I caught a couple “breasts” and “bosoms” and poignant time metaphors in there, but I’m usually on the lookout for those anyway. To be fair, given my nervousness at even taking a look, I didn’t spend too much time attempting to decode the intricacies of what I read. But it was a first step. Another step is going to be dealing with my reactions to powerful literature in a rational way, similar to how I would act in a physically stressful situation; for instance, being hungry. Sure, come a lunch-less 3 o’clock in the animal facility, I might want to eat a handful of mice, but I do the right thing and take a few of the high-fat food pellets from the supply room instead. That’s the kind of maturity others expect of me, and what I should expect of myself.
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